FTI: Damage Control
by theMaudlinAvenger
Summary: The adventure continues: Arnold, to avoid becoming a ward of the state, must try to save his beloved grandparents from being held criminally liable for events depicted in the Movie**. Can our intrepid football-head ward off this new danger? And at what cost? **Movie lightly edited in favor of AxH. (AU, unfortunately.) [Drama, Adventure, Hurt, Humor, Romance]
1. Preface and movie edits

The fanfic you're about to begin is the product of such thorough research that I sprinkled it with footnotes and near-hyperlinks. I hope you will not begrudge me the following instructions in their use:

**Footnotes**

This is a number in square brackets. To flip between a footnote and its position in the main text, hit Ctrl+F, then type the number and press Enter repeatedly.

**Hyperlinks**

I have never succeeded in highlighting text in the browser on this website. This greatly complicates the link-following process; I recommend the following:

First, open your favorite plaintext editor e.g. Notepad. (I like Notepad++.[1])

To open the chapter in the text editor, copy the URL out of the browser box (Ctrl+A, Ctrl+C) then paste it into the "File name" box in the Open dialog of the text editor. (Ctrl+O, Ctrl+V, Enter).

In the text editor find the footnote using Ctrl+F, then copypaste the link into your browser after deleting any extraneous spaces. In some cases it may be necessary to replace all instances of "dot" with "." (Ctrl+H, "Replace All").

* * *

><p>The fact that this work depends so closely on the movie may seem to deprive it of some elements of originality, especially when for plot reasons the characters must recount their experiences therein. I can only ask you to bear with me, and hope that your patience will be rewarded.<p>

In any case you should know that a published transcript of the movie exists.[2] Although the gist of my edits is perfectly obvious without it, I have tried to give the exact splice points for clarity.

* * *

><p><strong>Movie Edits: <strong>

…_The "confession scene." Arnold and Helga meet on the deck of the tower. The conversation proceeds normally until Helga, having delivered her confession, has seized Arnold and violently kissed him on the lips._

_Instead of the burst of color and music, the animation briefly freezes. At this moment Arnold's eyes are open, Helga's closed. Time seems to stop. Tense and rapid music starts playing. The camera zooms in on one of Arnold's pupils, until its blackness covers the entire screen._

_..._

_Arnold is reading from the pink book_

**Arnold**  
>H is for the head I'd like to punt. E is for every time I see the little runt. L is…<p>

_Helga rips the page out of the book._

_..._

_Arnold and the fake Cecile stand outside of Chez Paris_

**Arnold**  
>There's one thing I still don't understand. Who are you?<p>

**Helga**  
>I…um…I can't tell you.<p>

**Arnold**  
>Why not?<p>

**Helga**  
>I just can't, that's all. OK?<p>

...

_Arnold is seated in Helga's room, where Helga on her deathbed speaks to him_

**Helga**  
>…in the pit of my heart, in the depths of my soul, I truly lov—<p>

_Enter_ **Pheobe**  
>Helga, wait!<p>

...

_Arnold and friends are sitting on the floor of his room. Suddenly his retractable couch spits out a dust-covered figure clutching a cassette tape. The figure fiddles with the tape a bit, and while facing Arnold slowly makes her way through the door and closes it behind her._

_..._

_A parrot standing on a perch is talking in Mr. Simmons' class._

**Parrot**  
>Arnold, you make my girlhood tremble, my senses all go wacky. Someday I'll tell the world my love, or my name's not Hel—GULP!<p>

_The parrot is swallowed by a monitor lizard. _

_..._

_The scene returns to the deck. Arnold subtly modifies his grip on Helga's arms: rather than indicating an intention to break free of the embrace, he is now pulling a little bit on Helga, helping her press their faces together. His eyes have closed. At this point, both are kissing with closed eyes. After a few seconds, Helga's eyes pop open. Her pupils make a few darting movements in various directions, the timing and sound effects of which recall Arnold's eye movements in "School Play." Helga mentally utters a love-struck sigh and they both slide down out of view of the camera. After a second or two Arnold, having broken free, struggles to his feet. _

**Arnold**  
>The tape! We have to get back with the tape!<p>

**Helga **(_dazed_)  
>The tape?<p>

**Arnold**  
>Yeah, the tape of Scheck burning the document! Remember…you said you had a plan for getting us out. Something about a distraction?<p>

**Helga**  
>Oh, right…<p>

_After a brief technical discussion,_[3]_ Arnold and Helga rappel down the side of the building as originally depicted…_

_The movie proceeds unaltered until Helga and Arnold are standing alone in the street. Their awkward conversation proceeds as in the movie, until_

**Helga**  
>…Got carried away?<p>

**Arnold**  
>Did you really mean all that, about, uh, loving me and stuff?<p>

**Helga **_(becoming very angry)_  
>What? Of course not! How could you think I would love a ridiculous, irritating little…<em>(positively fuming) <em>football-head!? Did you hit your weird little head in the bus crash or something?

_(The over-the-top vehemence of this denial serves to accentuate its utter falsity. But Arnold takes the hint)_

**Arnold**  
>Well anyway, Helga, you pretty much saved our whole neighborhood. Without you, Gerald and I wouldn't have even known where to begin. I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough! <em>(He hugs her, like when she returned his hat)<em>

_Helga's face has a rapturous expression on it. She soon snaps out of it and pushes him away._

**Helga**  
>Well, you can start by getting off of me. Criminy, if there's one thing I can't stand, its being hugged by a football-head!<p>

**Arnold**  
>Whatever you say, Helga.<p>

_Helga storms away. Once clear of Arnold's line of sight, she breaks into a joyous skipping gait. On Arnold's face is a subtle, knowing smile. Gerald emerges from behind the bulldozer, and the movie continues unaltered until_

THE END

The above may expose a rather serious deviation in favor of what 'should' have happened. In my defense I plead the soft-hearted desire of an author to write a story where "among the tales of sorrow and ruin…there are some in which amid weeping there is joy…and great deeds that were not wholly vain."[4]

I add the usual disclaimer that I lack the slightest shadow of property rights in _Hey Arnold! _or its characters, places, events, or things. But I think my use of them must be considered "fair" from the legal point of view, if not artistically.[5]

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] notepad-plus-plus . org<p>

[2] heyarnolddotwikiadotwikidotcom/Hey_Arnold!:_The_Movie/Transcript

[3] Unfortunately, in this version we have had to sacrifice Helga's "Wonderful, I'll go with you," and Arnold's less-remembered but almost as classic response, "there's no time for that." Let us observe a moment of silence.

[4] I had to splice this Tolkein quote together from two books, _The Silmarillion _and _The Fellowship of the Ring._

[5] endotwikipediadotcom/wiki/Fair_use


	2. Arnold, your ball is flat

Arnold and Gerald entered the empty boarding house and recovered their basketball. But it was clearly useless; Arnold could put his arm through the hole in it.

As they went back outside, they took in the ruined, desolate surroundings. The crowd had dispersed, leaving a melancholy silence. The boarded-up vacancy of the other buildings, the collapsed wreck of the one directly across the street with its cracked Scheckvision monitor, the overturned bus and wrecked bulldozers with their fallen haloes of broken glass, and the large pieces of rubble from the overpass combined to produce an impression of utter devastation. The most striking feature of the scene was its emptiness of people, for even the police had dispersed sometime before the second great explosion, and for some reason not yet returned.

"Wow," said Arnold, "this doesn't look too good."

"Look on the bright side," said Gerald. "Most of the buildings are still standing. The owners can come back. I guess it'll be back to normal in a week."

Arnold wasn't so sure.

"Anyway," said Gerald, "even if you write off this block, we still saved the _rest_ of the neighborhood."

"Yeah," Arnold admitted, "I guess that's true."

As they looked out from his stoop, it occurred to them that it might be a good idea to leave the scene before the police returned.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Gerald.

"Yeah…let's go for a walk."

The boys walked together at a brisk pace, a bit faster than usual (but not quite fast enough to create the impression that they were running away), taking side alleys whenever convenient, until they reached one of the main thoroughfares.

"Arnold, where are we going?"

"I don't know," he said. "I was thinking we could go back to the docks and return this spy stuff to Bridget and her friends."

"But Arnold, this stuff is great! And they gave it to us _on the house_! Can't we just go to the movies or something?"

"It's great all right," said Arnold, "but I don't think we need it anymore. I don't know about you, but I'm not doing any more spy missions until I'm at _least_ twelve. And besides, Bridget has our clothes!"

This time Arnold had a point: besides the clothes they had left in Bridget's possession, all their stuff was back at their houses...which neither of them wanted to go back to quite yet.

"I see what you're saying, but I still think we shouldn't give back the stuff until we're _sure_ we won't need it anymore. She'll understand, anyway."

"OK," said Arnold. "But we still need to go down there and get our clothes back. And besides, I don't think we even need most of this stuff to do spy missions. I mean, look at Helga."

The sudden mention of Helga, and the slightly odd expression on Arnold's face when he said it, piqued Gerald's interest.

"Helga? That reminds me, you never told me how she ended up getting on the bus with you. And what exactly happened between you back at the tower?"

Arnold felt a pang of fear. "Gerald," he asked, "how much did you hear of what we said after the others left?"

"I heard it all," said Gerald, but "but what I heard didn't make any sense. First you said something about love, then she yelled at you, then you said something nice and hugged, and then she stormed away…I was just hanging behind the bulldozer blade waiting for you to get done," he added hastily.

At this point the boys got on a bus bound for the docks, taking seats near the back.

"Well Gerald, I think I'd better tell you everything from the beginning. After we split up I got to the parking garage feeling pretty bad. Right next to me, a pay phone rang. It was Deep Voice."

"Wait a minute. You mean Deep Voice called you at some random pay phone, _underground_, at exactly the time you were standing next to it?"

"Yeah, Gerald, she was watching me. We talked, and we figured Scheck must have video of him burning the document. I had to go up to the video room and get it. I did. I escaped into some kind of machine room and called you on the walkie-talkie."

Gerald nodded.

"After that I was running out. A service phone rang right as I was running past it. It was Deep Voice again. She said wait, she would distract the guards,"

"Hang on Arnold. You keep calling Deep Voice 'she'. Who is it?'

"Gerald, it's Helga. Helga was Deep Voice!"

Gerald's jaw dropped. "Helga? But that's crazy. And how did you find out?"

"When she called me on that phone I knew she had to be real close. I looked around the corner and saw a shadowy figure behind a glass door. While she kept talking on the phone I walked right up to her. I forced my way through the door and demanded to know who she was. Her disguise fell off and there she was. Helga, in a trenchcoat, with her normal pink get-up underneath. She was right in front of me!"

Gerald was surprised by the inscrutable, half-enamored half-terrified expression on Arnold's face.

"But that's crazy, man. Why would she go to so much trouble to help us? It doesn't make any sense."

Arnold looked around the bus. It was nearly empty, and no one seemed to be paying them any attention. He leaned in a bit closer and lowered his voice.

"Gerald, you have to understand, what I'm about to tell you can never be repeated to anyone, _ever_."

"Don't worry, man, I'm good for it."

"OK Gerald. So there I am, on this observation deck with Deep Voice, I mean Helga, and I demand to know why she was helping us. It didn't make any sense."

"_Tell_ me about it," replied Gerald.

"At first she tells me it was nothing. But then, she said that she liked me..."

Gerald's eyes widened.

"She said she loved me, madly in love with me, been that way for years, and been afraid to say anything about it basically forever…and then she grabbed me and kissed me," Arnold finished lamely.

Gerald sat there, silent, for what seemed like an eternity. "Arnold," he finally said, "this whole story is insane. First of all, Helga is like your worst enemy, and now she loves you. And on top of that, she was following our movements the whole time through that building, not getting caught, calling us on _pay phones_—how did she know what numbers to dial? I mean, to do that she'd have to be some kind of crazy super-spy. Where did she learn to do it?"

"Don't you see Gerald, Helga was berating me all the time to cover up her true feelings for me. And about her spy skills, I think I have some ideas." Gerald sat there agape.

A sly smile appeared on Arnold's face. "Remember that time we had the meeting up in my room, and some kid covered in dust just flew out of my couch? I'm pretty sure that was Helga."

Gerald was shocked, but soon recovered his senses. "Actually Arnold, maybe you're right. Remember that time I found this book full of love poems about you?"

"Yeah, I remember. I think that was Helga too. Actually, it was Helga who ripped the last page out of the book just before I could finish reading it."

"Yeah!" added Gerald. "And remember that time at Chez Paris, when you had Ruth and this girl claiming to be Cecile in two different restaurants at the same time? Now that I think of it, she sounded a lot like Helga."

"I think so too...Actually," added Arnold thoughtfully, "that was about the only date I ever had where there wasn't some weird accident."

Gerald was speechless.

"Like, remember that time when I was with Lila in the tunnel of love, and our boat just sank?"

"Arnold…are you_ actually_ suggesting that Helga was, like, swimming around in the tunnel of love, drilling holes in the bottom of your boat?"

"Well, I mean...I guess there's no way she could be _that_ crazy. But still, she's very good at sneaking around. And I'm sure she loves me. And Gerald," he added significantly, "I love her too!"

Of all the things Gerald had heard in this conversation, this was the most shocking. "But Arnold, this is Helga we're talking about. Hel-ga Pataki!"

"I know Gerald, but you don't know her the way I do. Even before this morning, I knew that beneath her vicious exterior, she was a good person deep down. And she can be wonderful. After you left Chez Paris with Cecile, I talked with her, and practically fell in love on the spot. She was so sad and vulnerable, but lovely at the same time. And think of what she did for us just now!"

Gerald gave up. "Well, I guess you're right. But what're you going to do about it? And why did she yell at you like that after it was over?"

"I don't know. The fact is, I just don't understand her. Maybe she got so used to mocking me and calling me football-head that she has trouble doing anything else. I tried to make her feel better by hugging her. I didn't know what else to do."

"Well, the only thing I know," said Gerald, "is you're a bold kid."

They got off the bus near the docks and walked among the rusty warehouses until they came to the place which rumor and experience, but not its looks, designated as Bridget's hideout. In the interests of fairness it was decided that this time Arnold should push the big, forbiddingly labeled red button. He did, but nothing happened. Then he pushed it again. Then, Gerald pushed the button. The silence was unbroken, except for the seagulls' sporadic cries.

Arnold soon realized that the door in front of them was ajar. He pushed it open. "Should we just go inside? It looks like there's nobody home."

They did, and closed the door behind them. Although the elevator would probably have worked, it felt weird to take it under these circumstances. They found some stairs nearby, and ascended to the top floor, where Bridget's workshop was. As they climbed the last flight of stairs, the silence grew more oppressive.

"Bridget? Is anyone there?" called Gerald.

Arnold, who was in front, emerged into the workshop. The large circular door was open, giving the place the impression almost of a single room. Although the computers and various pieces of apparatus were still there, it was unlit except for the sun, which came in through a row of slatted windows to the side. All was deserted, and the silence had become chilling. They advanced into the middle of the room, where the table was which had once spit out their gear from its flipping top.

"I wonder where they went," said Arnold. He looked at the table, but couldn't figure out how to make it flip.

"I don't know," replied Gerald, "but I have a bad feeling about this. Come on, man, let's just get our clothes and get out of here." So they went into the closet, where a moderately long row of white shirts was hanging from a metal rod. In the back two of the hangers held Arnold and Gerald's usual clothing, which stuck out like a sore thumb among the uniforms. They wasted little time in changing. Leaving their spy clothes on the closet floor, they took the utility belts with them, back into the main room.

"I guess we should give the belts back too?" said Arnold tentatively.

"Come on, man. There isn't even anyone here to take them! I'm putting mine on under my shirt."

"Still," said Arnold, "I think I'll put mine back on the table. It's not like I'll need it again anytime soon."

Arnold walked back to the square table. Without being conscious of the fact, he heard some car doors closing outside. He gently placed his belt back on the table, turned back, and walked the five or six paces back to Gerald. He had hardly reached his friend when he heard a shockingly loud banging on the door below as a stern, megaphone-enhanced voice coming from outside bellowed:

"Attention! This is the police. We have a warrant. Come out **immediately** with your hands up!"


	3. On the waterfront

Arnold and Gerald froze in their tracks. Instinctively, frantically, and unsuccessfully they looked around for a place to hide. Just as they finished scanning the room, there began a loud banging downstairs, as if the door was being battered down. Arnold rushed back to the square table where he had so rashly left his utility belt. Glancing around, he noticed the closet door was open, and in it, running along its low ceiling was an air duct with a ventilation panel on the bottom side.

"Gerald! In here!"

As he gestured toward the closet, the third BANG broke the door open; it was heard hitting the wall at the end of its swing. Footsteps and angry voices were audible below. Arnold and Gerald ran into the closet. Neither could reach the duct by himself, so Arnold knelt as Gerald climbed on his shoulders. With his grappling hook he delatched the panel, which swung down from hinges on its other side, and quickly but with difficulty climbed in.

"Arnold, come on!" he said urgently.

But Arnold, seized by a sudden urge, rushed to the rear of the closet and balled up their old spy clothes in his hands. Running back to Gerald, he handed him the clothes, then grabbed Gerald's arms. After a short struggle, Gerald pulled him up so that his hands were above the opening in the duct. One of Arnold's hands let go and grabbed the side of the duct, but Gerald grabbed his other arm with both hands, and between them they pulled him in. As soon as he was up, Arnold reached down and pulled up the grating, which he managed to keep closed by sticking the tip of Gerald's hook through a pair of holes.

The voices were now much louder, and the boys knew better than congratulate themselves on having avoided detection. Despite the need for silence, Arnold found himself wishing that a phone would ring nearby, that on the other side would be Deep Voice who, if she did not have some helpful and reassuring suggestion, would at least be someone to talk to. But, he remembered miserably, neither Deep Voice (Helga!) nor anyone else knew that they were there, in this most uncomfortable and helpless of hiding places. There was nothing to do here but wait.

As they lay in the duct they heard voices speaking.

"Hey, there's something on the third floor. It's pretty weird!" More footsteps were heard.

"Well," said another, more commanding voice, "we cleared the place. There's no one here. Let's get the detectives in here, pack all this shit up and get it back to the station."

There followed an interminable wait. The boys could hear footsteps, low voices, the clicking of cameras and, eventually, the noise of equipment being packed up and carried away.

A voice then spoke clearly, much closer: "Hey, look at all these suits. It's like the Men's warehouse or something! I swear, it's the strangest meth lab I ever saw."

"I don't think it is a meth lab," said another, female voice thoughtfully. "There wasn't much here but computers, some soldering irons, and a coffee maker. Must have been some sort of logistics center or something. But unless the computers have been wiped clean, this might turn out the biggest bust we've ever made."

Arnold and Gerald were confused by the conversation and scared by activity going on so near them. They hardly dared to breathe. Below, they could hear clothes being taken down from the rod and being zipped up in bags. While this was going on, a series of loud banging noises and congratulatory, then morose voices suggested that some other officers had finally succeeded in opening the square table, but found that it was empty.

At great length (it must have been hours) all of this activity died down, the last footsteps were heard going down the stairs, the door was closed with a clatter, and a gloomy, stifling silence returned. After a few minutes of this, Arnold spoke.

"Do you think it's safe to come out?" he whispered.

"Maybe," said Gerald. "But I think we should wait until we can hear cars driving away, then 15 minutes."

"Well," replied Arnold, "You've still got your watch on; tell me when you're ready." For whatever reason, probably because the duct walls blocked the sound, they never heard cars driving away. After about 20 minutes Gerald said he was ready. Arnold, who couldn't turn himself around in the duct, crawled back over the covered opening, removed the hook, and softly, slowly swung it open with his hands, and looked down with some thought.

"Gerald," he said, "If we drop out of here onto the floor, it'll make a huge noise. Here, give me the clothes I took. I'll drop them on the floor to muffle our fall." Arnold dropped the clothes on the floor and extricated himself, landing on them; Gerald did likewise.

"Man," said Gerald, "that was the worst thing since…when _did_ we get here?"

"I don't know," said Arnold, "but that was worse than anything that happened in Scheck's building. We couldn't even move!"

"Well, now that we _can_ move, let's not stick around this dump."

As they left the closet the boys found that all the computers, the coffee maker, the tables and chairs, everything, even the fancy folding-top table, was gone. It was impossible to guess that the day before, this place had been a bustling equipment laboratory and training school. They returned to the slatted windows on the top floor. No cop cars could be seen. When they went down to the door, however, they found it had been chained shut on the outside.

"Great," said Gerald. "Just what we needed."

They tried all the doors on the lower level, with the same results.

"Maybe we can open a window on the upper level and climb down," said Arnold.

"Sure," said Gerald, "great idea, Mr. 'I'm not going to need this spy gear until I'm twelve.' Let's do it."

They found two or three windows they could get through without breaking anything. Only one faced the water; they chose it for the sake of stealth. Gerald hooked his hook to the corner of the window area, and he and Arnold climbed down. They reached the slanted roof of an abutment, and jumped from that down to the pier. They were free!

"Remind me never to do _that_ again," said Gerald.

"I wonder what happened to Bridget," said Arnold.

"She probably got wind of the raid and scrammed."

"I hope they don't get caught because of the computers."

"Me too."

The boys walked down the pier towards the street. When they reached it, they noticed an old graybeard with a big yellow raincoat coming towards them at a brisk pace. It was Sheena's uncle Earl. But as he got closer, the boys realized that something was off about him. His skin was too smooth, his face not pimply enough.

When he got close he said, in an obviously unnatural voice, "Arr, what're ye boys doin' here, eh?"

Arnold and Gerald looked at each other. 'Earl' glanced around, winked at them, and pulled on his beard. It pulled about three inches away from his face and then snapped back, as if held by an elastic band. Arnold and Gerald immediately recognized Bridget. It was all they could do to keep from hugging her on the spot...but they still rushed towards her pretty quickly.

"What happened? How have you been? Did you know there was a raid?"

Bridget smiled. "Yes, we knew. We were watching the whole thing from back there." She gestured at a row of buildings behind the docks where, naturally, no sign of observers was visible.

"Let's walk and talk," she added, and they started off along the docks.

"You understand, boys, we have ears in a lot of places. And we're not so bad at electronic eavesdropping, either. We were told about the raid soon enough but, being at your place"—she looked at Arnold—"we almost missed our chance to clean up." Here she paused, as if contemplating how close a call it was.

"We camped out nearby and watched the whole thing...you can't imagine how I felt when I saw you guys walk up to the door! Now, why were you there anyway?"

"Well," said Gerald, "we wanted to get our civvies back. And this kid,"—he jerked his thumb at Arnold—"thought he should return your gear too."

Bridget's smiled again. "Aw, that's sweet," she said, messing Arnold's hair. "We were happy enough to just give you that stuff. Anyway," she said, "we rarely have the pleasure of equipping such excellent spies as you turned out to be. But tell me, when you were hiding in there, wherever you were, what did you hear?"

"We didn't hear much," said Arnold. "Something about it being the 'strangest meth lab they ever saw,' and that they hoped to make a big bust by going through your computers."

"A meth lab?" growled Bridget. "They thought we were a _meth lab_?" Her face softened. "But they won't get anything from the computers. We removed the hard drives right before we left."

Arnold and Gerald looked at each other. Neither of them knew what a meth lab was...but the fact was embarrassing, so it was necessary to ask something else.

"Bridget, why did they raid you?"

"Well, Arnold," she said after some hesitation, "I think Scheck's people must have been watching you. Ever since you became important in the effort to save the neighborhood, they must have been having someone report on your movements. I figure they probably followed you to our place."

Arnold was shocked. He never thought himself important enough to be followed. Should he have been more careful?

"Of course," continued Bridget, "once you left with your equipment, Scheck had no reason to try anything with us. You were already on your way; our part of the job was done. But when Scheck fell, his people must have wanted to take revenge. They would have fed the police the tip; hence the raid. Now, I think given the unusual degree of activity at this warehouse, the cops may have already suspected that _something_ was going on. But still," she added, looking more worried, "whoever tipped them off must have had a lot of power if they thought they could get away with calling us a f—" Bridget caught herself, "—a meth lab."

"Bridget," asked a suddenly concerned Arnold, "what'll happen to our neighborhood? Will everything really be OK?"

She frowned.

"Here's what I think, guys. Now that you two did such a wonderful job exposing Scheck, FTI will have to go a long way to convince people that they aren't the worst assholes in the world. They'll probably sell the whole neighborhood back at a loss, just to be convincing. They might even publicly praise you guys for your excellent work." She mussed their hair, one with each hand.

"But," she added sadly, "they won't forgive you. I think they would love to be able to pin something on your Grandpa, Arnold, and…the truth is," she grimaced bitterly, "that second explosion, the one that brought down the big screen, was very suspicious."

Arnold felt terrible. He remembered that his Grandma must already be either in jail, or a fugitive. Without Grandpa, what would he do?

"Can you help us, Bridget? Please?"

"We'll do what we can for you," she said, smiling sadly. "I think you'll need to get a lawyer. We know a guy in that field, and we'll try to put you in touch. Here," she said, handing Arnold a small notepad, "write your phone number on this pad."

Arnold wrote, and handed Bridget the pad. Turning to Gerald she said, her eyes twinkling, "I think I'll take _your_ number, too."

Gerald blushed as he obediently wrote the number.

By now the trio had reached the street-corner. At the last dock stood a small motor-boat.

"Well I guess we'd better wrap things up," said Bridget.

But Arnold, who was beginning to think of Bridget as a kind of idealized older sister, didn't want her to leave just yet.

"Wait, Bridget, can I ask you something?"

"Ask away."

Arnold's question was something he'd just thought of, but he felt like it had been gnawing at him for ages. "Bridget, did you ever do any business with Helga Pataki?"

Gerald looked like he might slap himself on the forehead; Bridget paused in thought.

"Helga Pataki…no…but wasn't she that girl who was with you on the bus? But," she said, studying Arnold intently, "she's a good girl, that Helga. I know her sister well." She slowed down, puzzled. "How _did_ Helga get on the bus, anyway?"

"She'd been feeding us inside information the whole time. Without her, we never could have succeeded. She was in the building too, but we didn't see her until the end, when we all escaped on the bus. She was so good, I thought she might have had help."

Bridget smiled slightly. "No," she said, "we never gave her anything. But that reminds me of something Napoleon once said. In war, he said, the moral factor amounts to three fourths. All the technical gizmos and stuff only add up to the other one fourth.[1] You be good to Helga, little man," she said, mussing Arnold's hair once more.

Arnold blushed. Was he really so transparent? But as Bridget turned to leave, Gerald asked her something else.

"Wait, Bridget, before you go. This has been bothering me for a while now. I don't mean to pry, but, I mean, you, your whole team, like, who _are_ you guys?"

Bridget broke into a wide grin. "But Gerald, isn't it obvious? We're high school students." And with that she turned, walked to the boat, started the motor, and drove away into the mist.

Arnold and Gerald stood on the shore, as the noise of the motor boat dwindled into the background.

"Man," said Gerald, "if we're half as cool as that when we're in high school, we've got it made." Meanwhile Arnold was pondering what Bridget had told him. The Napoleon stuff was something he hadn't really thought of before. He wasn't sure if it was really true two hundred years after it had been uttered…but anyway, it was a pretty unusual thing for an equipment vendor to say.

"Well I don't know about you," said Gerald, "but I'm starving. I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast."[2]

Neither had Arnold, and it was already afternoon. They grabbed some hot dogs and wolfed them down. After eating, they talked about going back home. Arnold wasn't ready to go just yet, but Gerald was. It was apparent that their situations were a bit different. Gerald could go home just about whenever he wanted, no problem. Arnold's house, on the other hand, was a cross between a crime scene and the site of a famous battle. If Arnold went back, he'd probably have to sneak past an army of press people, if not cops.

"I'd rather not face all that right now," said Arnold.

"Well, I'm not going to leave you out here alone, anyway. You want to go throw rocks at a dumpster?" And that is what they did.

* * *

><p>At some point while they were throwing rocks, Helga appeared with Phoebe. But the boys didn't notice them, for Helga on seeing them quickly turned Phoebe around, and they were soon out of sight. Nevertheless, the subject came up.<p>

"So…Helga. What are you going to do about her?"

"Well, I really don't know," replied Arnold. "I guess I should try to open her up, but if she's not ready and she just snaps at me, what's the point? Maybe I should just wait until she's ready."

"I don't know about that," said Gerald. "So Helga came out to you on the roof. She spilled her deepest secret to you and started kissing you. Now think, why didn't she tell you this before? Because she thought you would reject her. But you didn't reject her! You love her! So, as far as Helga's concerned, what's the problem?"

"Maybe she's worried about being laughed at by the other kids?" said Arnold meekly.

"Arnold, get real. You're a freaking hero, man! And so is she. In fact, she pretty much saved the entire neighborhood just because she loved you. Who's going to make fun of her now?"

"That's a good point, Gerald, but you know, when I was reading her poems out of that pink book, the reaction was really pretty fierce. Man," he said regretfully, "I never should have done that."

"Listen, man, you just need to step back for a moment and look at the big picture. A little schoolyard taunting like that is nothing. Besides, it won't last. You know," said Gerald, throwing a stone which went right into the middle of the dumpster, "here's what I think her deal is. Helga didn't tell you until now because she thought you might not love her back. Now, she told you. But she doesn't keep trying. Why? The same reason. She still isn't sure that you really _like her _like her." He chucked another stone into the bin.

"Now that I think about it, I think, deep down, Helga loves you so much that she's afraid of forcing herself on you. She cares so much about your happiness that, unless you _really _love her, she doesn't want to make you go through the motions. Until she's sure about that, she'll never let you get close. It would feel wrong to her."

"Wow," said Arnold, "that's deep. I never thought about it that way before."

"If you ask me, man, your real mistake was when you were both in the street this morning. Instead of having that whole stupid conversation where you helped each other cover up how you really feel, you should have just shut up, grabbed her, and kissed her on the lips!"

"Come on, Gerald. Right there, in the street, in front of all those people?"

"Yes sir. I'm telling you, that kiss would have solved all your problems. The other kids would have seen it, but so what? They'll find out anyway, might as well get it over with. The main thing is that Helga would know that you love her, and forget everyone else! It would have been great." Gerald sighed slightly. It was, after all, easier to give radical advice than to follow it.

"That hug you gave her wasn't bad, she needed something. But I'm telling you, Helga's going to be in a funk until she hears you say, I love you. That stuff about gratitude and admiration just isn't going to cut it."

"I guess you're right Gerald. Helga already told me that she loves me. Now I guess it's my move. But I don't know when I can, it's…so awkward."

"Just don't wait too long. You could end up going crazy too. _One _Helga is enough!" They threw a few more rocks.

"Arnold, I'm getting tired of this. I think I could use a good sitting session in a comfortable chair. You want to go to the movies?"

* * *

><p>So they did; they bought two tickets to the showing of <em>Evil Twin 3<em>, just about to start. As they entered the theater, Arnold pricked up.

"Look, Gerald, there she is, with Phoebe!" Helga and Phoebe were down the aisle, holding popcorn and sodas. They took seats in the front row. Arnold turned to leave, but Gerald held him.

"We're staying, man. We'll sit in the back." He didn't offer to duck if they came up the aisle, but Arnold was thinking it.

"Arnold," asked Gerald thoughtfully, "do you think Phoebe knows about you?"

Arnold searched his memories. "Yeah, actually, I do. I never told you about this, but there was this one time, in the middle of the night, Helga was climbing on my fire escape in her pajamas, and Phoebe was with her."

"Wait, how come I never heard this story?" asked Gerald.

"It's not much of a story, really," said Arnold. "I woke up one night to some noise on the fire escape. Helga was there, Phoebe too. I told them I heard a noise on the fire escape. What were they doing? Helga said they were going for a walk."

"On your fire escape?"

"_That's right, football-head! On your fire escape. It's a free country. We can walk wherever we feel like!_ Then they left, and I went back to sleep. The whole thing was bizarre."

"Man, what luck," said Gerald, who appreciated Arnold's voice work. "Helga _and_ Phoebe climbing your fire escape at the same time! I'd settle for just Phoebe." They looked at each other.

"Say, Arnold...if Phoebe knows, and if you're _really _such a pansy that you can't tell Helga yourself, I think I could arrange the whole thing through her in about 30 seconds. Heck," he said, almost getting up from his seat, "I could go down there and do it right now."

"No, Gerald, I have to do it myself. I'm just not ready yet. But, he added, if Phoebe comes to you with something about Helga, don't wait to tell me!"

"Yeah, like that'll happen."

You may believe, readers, that down in front the conversation was proceeding along similar lines.

"Nah, don't do that Pheebs," said Helga. "But if Gerald comes to you with something, report to me as soon as possible! Otherwise, everything, this whole conversation…never happened."

"Yes, Helga, I suppose you're right. Forgetting!"

They watched the movie. Arnold made sure that they hastened out the back as soon as the credits started to roll; Helga and Phoebe never saw them.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] This list contains three different versions of the quote, which like most of the quotes in this work was viciously butchered:<br>napoleonguidedotcom / maxim_warddothtm

[2] In the previous chapter there was no mention of breakfast, although the narrative was meant to be continuous. You can assume they got corn dogs at a food stand on their way to Bridget's place.


	4. The homecoming

When the movie was done it was getting late. The shadows were long, the sun was low in the sky, and it was finally time to go home.

After the usual bus ride, Arnold and Gerald arrived at the head of Vine Street. Looking down, they could see that the cleanup effort (which had clearly adjourned, since the street was vacant) had made moderate progress. The big rubble chunks and the bulldozers had been cleared from the street, but the flipped bus was still there, surrounded by a ring of cones strung together with Caution tape. The building across from the boarding house was still a jumbled pile of rubble with the cracked monitor jutting out askance, but the sidewalk in front of it had been cleared enough to be passable. Across from it the sandbagged redoubt had also disappeared.

Just in front of the destroyed building sat a parked car with a man in the driver's seat, apparently doing nothing. Arnold made a mental note to go through the back door.

"Well," said Gerald, "I guess this is it."

"Yeah, I'll see you later, man," said Arnold. They did their signature thumb gesture, and parted ways.

* * *

><p>When Gerald got home he, too, found an occupied parked car outside. As he neared his door, the man tried to talk to him.<p>

"Gerald, right? Bill Sanders, from the _Hillwood City Times_. Care to answer a few questions?"

"Sorry man, I can't talk right now," said Gerald, brushing him off.

"Well, OK," the man said, "but sooner or later _someone's_ got to tell us what happened, and it might as well be you. Think about it, kid."

"Maybe later," said Gerald, and he went inside.

* * *

><p>As Arnold opened the back door, the usual mob of pets rushed out. He went directly to the kitchen, where he found Grandpa making dinner preparations.<p>

"Hey shortman, how've you been? I Haven't seen you all day. Out basking in your glory, eh?" he asked, smiling tenderly.

"Not really, Grandpa. I just wanted to get away from all the excitement. Did Grandma come home yet?"

"No, shortman, I'm pretty sure she's still on the run. At least the cops hadn't found her a few hours ago, when they searched the place."

"The cops searched our _house_?" asked Arnold, shocked.

"Oh, it wasn't that bad," said Grandpa reassuringly. "They only looked around the rooms and stuff. They were pretty thorough, but it's not like they ripped up the sofa cushions or anything. They might do that later though I guess…oh, and by the way, shortman, I wouldn't say anything sensitive over the phone if I were you. It's probably bugged."

"But why, Grandpa?"

"Well, they probably figure Grandma'll call here, and they can find her that way...and maybe even get something on us for hiding her. But," he added darkly, "it's also possible they think we blew up that building across the street."

"But...you didn't, right?"

"Oh Arnold, of course not! That was your fat friend, you know, the one with the pink skin…what's his name?"

"Grandpa!"

"No, that's not it. I think it starts with an H… anyway, that kid was really tired, see. He wanted to sit down, see. So he sat right on the plunger we set up and blew the whole thing to smithereens! But I guess he must have got a second wind, the way he bolted down the street after that!" Grandpa interrupted himself to chuckle at his joke.

"Anyway, after that we all ran away."

To call Arnold horrified would be an understatement.

"But Grandpa," he said, "that's crazy! Why would you do something like that?"

"Well, look, Arnold. The fact is, we all thought your plan about getting that document was doomed to failure. We decided to do something ourselves. We figured if we blew a big hole in the center of the street, the bulldozers couldn't get through. But we put the explosives in the wrong place. And anyhow, you showed up with the tape, and then everything was fine."

"Grandpa, this is serious! What if they _had_ been in the middle of the street? You could have killed someone! How could you do this? ? ?"

Now it was Grandpa's turn to get upset.

"Now look here, shortman. Setting those charges was desperate, sure, but I was watching the entire situation constantly. I knew the right time to blow those charges, and I knew that I wouldn't pull the trigger unless no one was in the way. The point was to make a hole, not to hurt anyone. Now let me tell _you _something," said Grandpa, his face hardening. "I was sitting inside that redoubt we built with the sandbags, watching everything with binoculars. Just before you showed up, I saw workmen putting dynamite under the overpass. Then I saw your pal Nick Vermicelli, in the street next to the bulldozers. He talked a bit on a walkie-talkie, then he pulled out a remote-control detonator and blew up the overpass! Not a minute later I saw that bus, _your bus_, jump over the gap in the highway. Then I was sure: Scheck ordered Nick to blow that highway up. They were ready to _kill _whoever was on that bus. And what's more, from down there there's no way Nick could've seen the traffic on the highway. As far as he knew, he could've been blowing up a van full of kids! And those bulldozer drivers just sat there and watched it happen!"

Grandpa was fuming with indignation. Arnold was shocked. He knew two wrongs didn't make a right, but still…

"You know, Arnold, when the day started I really did have some second thoughts about whether it was right to risk those poor construction workers, even if we _would_ save the neighborhood for a while, and even if they were only going to get bruised a little. But when I saw what those guys did with that highway, I figured they deserved everything that was coming to them."

Arnold had some thinking to do. He knew Grandpa was telling the truth. The worst he wanted to do was blow up the street, and let the bulldozers trap themselves in the crater. With a guilty feeling Arnold remembered how he'd cheered when he saw his Grandma wrecking the bulldozers. Couldn't the drivers have been hurt then too? Was that stuff really any worse than what Grandpa had been planning to do to them? Although he had been appallingly, unpardonably reckless in leaving that detonator where Harold could sit on it, he was still his Grandpa, and Arnold loved him. After a long pause, Arnold sighed, then spoke.

"Did anyone else see what happened?"

"Well, you were there, shortman. Everyone saw it! The explosion, I mean. Actually, just as the kid was sitting down I screamed at the top of my lungs and got people's attention. So basically, I guess everyone saw _that_ too."

Arnold's heart sank.

"But," Grandpa continued, "I'm pretty sure none of the cops saw it happen. I guess they cleared out right around the time it went off. In fact, I'm _sure_ the cops didn't see it."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Well," said Grandpa, "after the explosion we all started running like the wind. When I got to the street corner I realized no one was chasing me. So I made a couple of right turns, and came back in front of the house through an alley. No one was around. I scooped up the plunger real fast and ran down the length of the wire, coiling it back up. I dived into the manhole, put the cover back on, and kept going underground. I don't think anyone saw me."

Arnold was puzzled. He remembered how empty everything was. Did all this really happen while he and Gerald were discussing the deflated basketball?

"Of course, there was nothing I could do about the sandbags. I didn't want to be caught outside cleaning stuff up when the police came back, no sir. Once I had all the wire I went straight down to the…well, there's really no reason to tell you what I did with it. But regardless," he finished, "our neighbors are good, loyal people and I'm sure they wouldn't rat me out."

Arnold was, to say the least, unconvinced. That plunger and the wire must have been lying out in the open for at least a minute after the blast. Surely not _everyone _who saw it in that time would keep quiet. But there was no point in debating it; only time would tell. He sat there in glum silence.

"But enough about me, shortman. How did you ever get that tape? And why in the HELL did that bus you were in decide to jump that huge hole in the overpass? Whoever did that was at least as bad as me setting those charges."

Arnold gulped.

"Actually, Grandpa, jumping the overpass was my idea."

"WHAT? But you're nine years old! You could have been killed! Arnold, I know it worked, but...why couldn't you just _pull over_? Arnold... I ... I promised your parents to keep you safe and sound, and you, you went and did _that_?"

Arnold could see that Grandpa was fighting back tears.

"I'm really sorry, Grandpa, but we had no choice. Please, just let me explain."

Grandpa's face had gotten to the point he felt compelled to press it with a napkin. He said nothing.

"So, Gerald got out of the building first. He couldn't find a cab, only that bus. Then Helga and I came out with the tape and got on board. At this point it was about 15 minutes before 7. The only people on the bus were me, Helga, Gerald, and the driver Murray. Murray wouldn't go above 25. We tried every argument we could think of, but he wouldn't speed up. It was awful." Grandpa's face had dried up. He was listening intently.

"Murray found out that his girlfriend lived in our neighborhood. At that point he totally changed and started driving like a madman. Of course," he added, "we were all fine with that."

"So then we came up to a drawbridge. Right in front of us, the bridge started going up. Like it was on a signal or something. Murray decided to jump the drawbridge. He did it. It was amazing. But when the bus came down on the other side, Murray got hit in the head and knocked out."

Phil sat rapt.

"Basically, we had Gerald take the steering wheel while Helga and I tried to get the pedals free. Cause when Murray went out, his foot got jammed in between the gas and the brake pedal, so we were pretty much flooring it the entire time and we couldn't stop. Not only that, Murray's foot was artificial—he lost his leg in the war—and it was super heavy. That leg must have been made of solid steel. Gerald steered the bus onto the highway, but nothing Helga and I could do could get that leg of his free. When we came up to the hole, there was a flatbed truck disabled, with its bed like a ramp. So, we jumped it. There was nothing else we could do. Granpda," he said pathetically, "if we hadn't made that jump, if that flatbed hadn't been there, we probably would've died."

Grandpa had started crying again. Arnold was affected too; until now he hadn't really thought about how close they had been. Grandpa hugged Arnold in silence. At length he spoke.

"Well, I guess you did the right thing, shortman. Are you hungry?"

He was. Grandpa cooked some stuff, and they ate together.

* * *

><p>"So shortman," asked Grandpa over dinner, "there's one other thing I don't understand. You said Helga got on the bus with you. Where did she come from? I thought it was just you and Gerald."<p>

Arnold hesitated. Telling Gerald about Helga was one thing, but this was different.

"Yeah, Grandpa, Helga was helping us, but…I'd rather not talk about that right now."

Grandpa's face lit up. "Oh come on, shortman. What happened? Your secret admirer stopped being so secret, eh?"

He playfully jabbed Arnold's arm. The boy blushed deeply.

"Ha, I knew it! Didn't I tell ya, shortman? I _knew _she liked you!" Grandpa was howling with glee. Arnold glared at him. Was he the _only_ one surprised by Helga's confession?

"You want to know something else about her? Back when the bulldozers started to move, her dad came right up to me in the foxhole. He took one look at the detonator and offered to join us. You know, I've had my differences with that blowhard before, but now that I think about it, he'd make a pretty good son in law. When's the wedding?"

"Grandpa!"

"Oh, sorry shortman. But can you blame an old man for wanting great-grandkids? Boy," he said wistfully, "there's nothing I'd like more than to see some great-grandkids before I die. That's in ten years Arnold, so you and Helga'd better get cracking!"

"Grandpa! !" Arnold's fists were clenched.

"Oh, I was just kidding, shortman, kidding." He took some time to compose himself.

"Well, Arnold, before you go, there's something serious I need you to do for me. The truth is, I have no idea where your Grandma is. Right now she's on the run from the law, and if she comes back here—although I doubt she would 'cause it's the first thing they'd expect—we'll have to hide her somewhere." Arnold was all ears.

"I've decided the best place to hide your Grandma is in that space behind where your couch comes out of the wall. I've put together a sleeping bag, a blanket, and a pair of her pajamas in my room. I want you to take that stuff upstairs and put it in your closet, so it'll be right next to the hiding place. If she does come back, I want everything to go like clockwork."

Arnold felt bad about his Grandma and was willing to do anything he could for her.

"Sure, Grandpa, just give me the stuff. But what do you think will happen to Grandma? Can we hide her forever?"

"No, Arnold, I don't think we can. But I guess after a year or two they'll stop looking, and then she can come back down."

"Grandpa," asked Arnold sadly, "what if she doesn't come back. When will we see her again?"

The old man sighed.

"I don't know," he said. "Of course, if they get her back in jail, we can visit her every week, unless she escapes first. But if they never catch her and she never comes back, well…still, I guess after a few years she might figure it was safe to come back here anyway."

Arnold felt terribly sad. Where was his Grandma now? But if he couldn't see her anyway, and if the cops were looking for her, he realized that maybe it was better not to know where she was. He hoped she was safe.

"Actually, Grandpa, I'm feeling kind of tired. Do you want to give me the stuff now? I'll take it up."

Arnold had good reason to be tired: he and Gerald had stayed up the whole previous night. Grandpa took the sleeping bag, blanket and PJ's up to the base of Arnold's stairs. He handed them to the boy, who made two trips. After that, they said good night.

Arnold crawled in to bed. He had a lot to think about…he thought of the second explosion. Despite what Grandpa said, he couldn't think of any way he could escape getting caught. If Grandpa and Grandma were in jail, what would happen to him? Foster care? Would Gerald's parents adopt him? Maybe he would have to live with his cousin Arnie and _his_ friends…Arnold shuddered. A regretful feeling gripped him. Gerald was right, he thought. If he had just grabbed Helga and kissed her like he said, everything would have been different. They would be happy together. The teasing would start, but it wouldn't last, and it wouldn't matter anyway. And Harold might have been so distracted…that he sat down somewhere else.

And it was with these regretful thoughts that Arnold went to sleep.


	5. The cave

Arnold found himself sitting in the cockpit of a two-seater biplane. He was calmly flying over water, in fine sunny weather, at a fairly low altitude. Not far ahead of him was a small tropical island, mostly covered in jungle foliage. Near the center of the island a short rocky eminence could be seen. Drawing closer, Arnold saw that this eminence had a large opening in one side, like the entrance to a cave, around which was a small sandy clearing amid the jungle.

As he flew over the place a voice he recognized called out: "Help! Save me! ARNOLD!" He looked down and saw…Helga! She was dressed what seemed to be the usual attire of late-medieval damsels-in-distress, but a bit fancier. (Actually, it was pretty much identical to what she wore as Juliet in the play.) A giant-or perhaps it was just an unusually big adult-had slung her over his shoulder and was carrying her into the cave.

Arnold said nothing. He knew he had to rescue Helga, but with the slipstream and the engine noise he doubted his voice could reach her. He noticed just now that to the right wall of his cockpit was strapped a long, broad, straight sword in a scabbard. A suggestive piece of equipment! Looking down, he noticed that he was wearing Romeo's blue tunic beneath his leather aviator jacket.

Arnold immediately understood that that he had to land the plane, fight and maybe kill the giant with his sword, and finally fly Helga away. The prospect of violence disturbed him, but in the meantime he needed to figure out where to land.

This was a serious problem as the only beach he could see was too curved-it enclosed a sort of bay—and no other place could be seen. The sand also looked too soft for a good landing. Arnold briefly considered crash-landing the plane, but it seemed a terrible waste…and besides, it had a spare seat which was clearly meant to hold Helga as they flew away into the sunset. Finally it occurred to him that he had actually never seen his undercarriage; he could be flying a seaplane! But our football-headed hero soon convinced himself that he was too short to check it by leaning out of the cockpit, and too lightweight to risk climbing out on the wing with the plane on autopilot.

But Arnold had another idea. He flew low over the calm waters of the bay and rocked his plane gently side to side—a little at first, but with increasing amplitude as he got used to the controls. At the end of the motion Arnold caught his reflection in the water and solved the problem: the pylons were there! He made one loop and landed, slowing as he travelled straight towards the beach. As he lost the last of his speed, he came to rest on the wet sand, with the gentle waves lapping at his pylons.

Arnold now paused a moment in thought. He didn't want to hurt the giant if he didn't have to. Maybe he could just talk to him and reason things out? Moreover, at this point Arnold was vaguely aware that he was dreaming. Although that didn't change anything—it was his duty to rescue Helga in any case—he couldn't help but fear that something bad would happen if he tried to fight the giant. He probably remembered a certain incident in _The Empire Strikes Back,_ when Luke took his lightsaber into the Dagobah cave. Couldn't something similar happen here? But, he would have thought, there was no analogy. Arnold knew that Helga was being held in that cave by an enemy; Luke's cave, on the other hand, contained "only what you take with you."

In any case Arnold decided to take the sword with him from the plane, but leave it at the entrance to the cave. That way he could have a civilized conversation with the giant, without it seeming as though he was threatening him, but not be totally screwed if things went south.

So he got out of the plane, sword in hand, and nervously walked towards the cave entrance. He leaned the sword against the main rock formation, to the left of the opening, and entered the cave. As he got deeper inside, and his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw Helga tied up against the back wall. Her hands were tied to the wall above her head, but her feet were free. She was not quite hanging from her wrists, but standing almost on tiptoes.

"Arnold!" she screamed. "Thank God! But be careful, my love!" In front of her, somewhat closer to Arnold and looking menacingly at him, stood the giant.

"Listen, uhh, sir," said Arnold, "I need to rescue that girl, Helga. Please don't try to stop me. If you want, I can trade you my sword for her once she's free."

But the giant only gave a loud, vicious laugh. As Arnold watched in amazement, it slowly transformed into a wingless, hulking black dragon. But soon he had to move, to avoid being incinerated by a burst of hot flame from its massive jaws. He then ran back to the entrance, grabbed the sword, threw the scabbard to aside, and ran back in with the naked blade.

Then there began the long and not particularly interesting combat of Arnold with the dragon. For most of it all Arnold's wits were absorbed in dodging its serial attempts to kill him—fame-bursts, claw-swipes, tail-lashes—without dropping the sword. But slowly Arnold's confidence grew and he began to study the situation, looking for a way out. It seemed to him that the dragon was a bit clumsy, and the cave was big enough for him to get around it despite its efforts. But Arnold soon realized that even if he could get around the dragon it would take some time to cut Helga's bonds, during which they would be completely vulnerable.

The end result of it all was that Arnold finally decided it was necessary kill—or at least incapacitate with a serious wound which would probably not be treated by him or anyone else—the dragon. (He reached this conclusion on his own since Helga, after her initial encouragement, had remained silent.)

After taking some more time to overcome his natural disinclination for murder, Arnold finally had his opportunity. As the dragon reared to swipe at him with his foreclaws, he rushed forward and drove his sword up to the hilt, into its relatively soft belly. The beast bellowed and crashed down; Arnold let go of the sword and sprung free of the wreck. He rushed to Helga and untied her arms.

"Oh, Arnold! My love! You saved me!" Helga threw herself into Arnold's arms. They embraced; Helga kissed him, and pulled him down over her, so that Arnold was almost lying on top of Helga on the floor. But as he was kissing her, something felt wrong. Helga didn't seem to be doing anything in the kiss; indeed, she felt a bit limp. His hands, which were holding her back, felt slick with some fluid. As he pulled his head back from hers, he could see blood on his forearms. He was holding Helga's body, apparently lifeless, in a pool of dark, red blood. Arnold was horrified. Looking down at Helga, he saw a huge, bloody wound in her torso. It was as if she had been run through by an invisible broadsword. She was dead! Arnold felt an indescribable mixture of guilt, horror and revulsion. He looked toward the dead dragon, and found that at the end of its scaly neck was Helga's head grossly enlarged, in profile, its mouth expressionless, its eyes closed in death. He screamed terribly and woke up.

Just as in the dream, his hands felt wet. He turned on the light and saw that it was merely sweat; his whole body was damp with it. Arnold turned the lamp off, lay back down, and thought about his dream. What did it mean? Well, he thought, onelesson is that I can't try to separate Helga into good and bad parts, and save only the good part. I have to love Helga as a whole. But, thought Arnold bitterly, I _already _love her like that! Why would they send me such a terrible nightmare just to teach me what I already know?

The most disturbing aspect of it all, thought Arnold, was that I actually _didn't_ make any mistakes. I _knew _it was a trap, I _didn't _take my weapons into the cave. Then it hit him. The real meaning of the dream is that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how well he planned it, he was doomed to fail. "Really?" thought Arnold. Was it true that all his efforts were doomed in advance? Were all his attempts to get closer to Helga destined to end in defeat, or to destroy the thing he loved so dearly? Arnold could not accept this, and weakly consoled himself with the thought that it was, after all, only a dream.

He turned over in bed and got some more sleep in, before he saw the dawn gleaming through his skylight.


	6. Airduct murmurs

**Corniness Alert**

** This chapter, the previous one, and several other parts of this book contain material which may be insufferably corny. This is unavoidable, because all the events I describe have been faithfully recorded exactly as they really happened. **

**For this reason I feel entitled to declare that I cannot assume the slightest responsibility for any medical and/or property damage which may result from an uncontrollable physical reaction to extreme corniness (e.g. vomiting). Readers who feel themselves at risk are strongly encouraged to grab a barf-bag or bucket and keep it close at hand. You may also wish to invest in a keyboard cover.**

**Sincerely,  
>The Author<strong>

* * *

><p>When he woke up, Arnold felt surprisingly good. He could tell by the color of the sky that it was early; his clock confirmed this. Arnold got out of bed and walked around his room. He soon thought tenderly, but with residual fear, of Helga.<p>

He remembered all the times she had been here before, in this room, when Arnold, dense as a rock, had failed to appreciate her. In this vein Arnold ambled over to his anthropomorphic potted plant and looked down through its window, at the fire escape which Helga had once been found to have climbed.

"Oh Helga!" thought Arnold, "It was a free country, you said. You could walk wherever you want, and you wanted to walk on my fire escape… but now, now that I love you, you prefer to walk in other places." He was feeling poetic this morning. So he continued:

"You ascended my fire escape in the cold, starry night  
>But I dismissed you.<br>You sprung forth from my wall, like Athena from God's cloven skull,  
>But I ignored you.<br>You kissed me on the rooftop, in the glow before the dawn,  
>But I rushed on.<br>You left me in the morning,  
>But I chased you not.<br>Come back, come back, my love!  
>For you have climbed the ladder to my heart.<br>You have exploded inward from my ribcage,  
>You have kissed awake the sleeper.<br>You have left him who longs for you.  
>But she hearkens not to my call.<br>She climbs not up the fire escape,  
>She springs not forth from the wall,<br>All is still."[1]

After some hesitation Arnold decided to write the poem down, not because he had any illusions about its quality, but rather because he knew that Helga had "volumes" of horribly embarrassing love poetry lying around, and it seemed unchivalrous not to share the danger. As he wrote it out he compared it to some of the 'anonymous' poems Mr. Simmons had read in class, and smiled.

...oh, Helga! Although Arnold's deep horror was beginning to fade, he realized that, as he'd told Gerald yesterday, she was a mystery to him. Helga… why _did _you climb my fire escape? And why did you explode unexpectedly from my rotating couch, covered in dust, so that I alone recognized you?

Then Arnold had an interesting idea: He would follow Helga's path behind the couch and see what he could discover there. "Anyway," he rationalized, "I ought to scout the place out in case we have to hide Grandma there."

So Arnold took the remote in hand, lay down on the couch, and flipped himself through the wall.

The fact was that Helga had spent much more time than Arnold in this space, at least in the last year. And although Arnold had been greatly interested in it long ago, when the couch was first installed, the place never since drew him, so that it felt like he entering it for the first time.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Arnold looked around. He saw brick walls, pipes, and rectangular air ducts of a few different sizes. And more—right in front of him was a large, gaping hole in the floor! [2] Arnold was shocked; it looked large enough for a kid to fall through! Indeed, he thought, _I_ might be able to fall through it, if perhaps my head wasn't so wide. But, clearly, it was not through that hole that Helga had entered his room; he left it and looked around.

The walls were covered with a coating of dust, whose ample thickness he measured by pushing his finger through it. Was this the source of Helga's grey appearance? Arnold turned around, scanning the walls. Several feet above his rotating couch, Arnold saw a disordered line below which the dust had been mostly removed. What did that mean? Could it be that Helga had been flattened face-first against that wall, picking up its dust, and then, sliding down, fell onto the couch? This thought disturbed him a bit, and not only because Helga could have been hurt. If the couch could be triggered just by someone falling on it, was it unsafe? Arnold did not feel the need to test the theory of the hair-trigger couch just yet. Instead, he asked himself how Helga could have hit the wall so high.

But he soon saw another clue. Way above his couch was a pipe, with a rotary valve sticking upward, around which was a not-very-short rope tied with a lasso. Did she swing on this into the wall? Where could she have started from? Arnold couldn't reach the bottom of the rope from the floor; evidently Helga hadn't been standing there. He looked around and saw several air ducts, the tallest and biggest of which was above the level of his head. He climbed onto it, using the smaller ducts and pipes as handholds. Although he couldn't grab the rope, which was hanging straight down in front of him, he felt like its length would reach his arms at the right angle.

So, that was it. Helga had been standing on this very duct. She must have lassoed the pipe from here then swung, struck the wall, picked up its dust, and fell on the couch which spat her forth like a cat's hairball. But this only raised another question: _How_ had Helga come to be standing here at all? As Arnold pondered this he looked down and found the answer. Beneath his feet was an unlocked access grate. Perhaps she had crawled hither through the duct! Arnold opened it up and stuck his head inside. All was dark, and he couldn't see around the corner.

Here Arnold hesitated a moment. You see, he respected Helga's privacy. Indeed he respected it even before he knew it was hers, for he had never investigated or even mentioned the incident since the moment it happened. He'd been sure that the intruder, whoever she was, meant him no harm, and he hated the idea of embarrassing someone on an errand which was clearly none of his business.

And even now, when he knew it was Helga, Arnold didn't feel violated by her home-invading, airduct-crawling, rope-swinging, couch-riding antics. But…he wanted to understand her. Some powerful, inscrutable, beautiful spirit had passed through this duct, and Arnold felt, somehow, that by emulating its movements he might come closer to understanding its feelings. And so, like Siegfried imitating the bird-song, Arnold crawled clumsily into that airduct which Helga's virtuosity had hallowed.

The first thing that struck him, besides the darkness, was the disturbing noisiness of it. It seemed like every time he moved his knees or his hands, there was this metallic _bang-whoosh _sound of the metal floor buckling. Arnold soon figured out that the buckling could be minimized by keeping his legs and hands in the corners of the duct. Although this was not very comfortable, it was much quieter.

Arnold rounded the corner of the duct and saw a square opening in the floor, far down the hall. In the light which came up through it, he could actually see some stuff: cobwebs mostly, but near the hole something singularly interesting: a broken wooden board lying on the floor of the duct. Directly above it two short pieces of broken wood sticking out from the walls. Something must have happened there, Arnold thought.

Arnold crawled to the vent and looked down through it on a familiar section of the hallway leading to his stairs. Almost immediately below him, against the wall, was a small table with an answering machine. Helga must have crouched here too, and peered down through the vent…at what? But Arnold soon corrected himself: Helga must have been coming up the duct in the opposite direction from his, so she was looking down from the _other_ side of the vent. Arnold decided that for the sake of historical accuracy he must turn around, and look down from the same side of the duct as Helga had once done.

But how? The duct was too narrow to turn around. He could crawl backward to the place he came in, get out, and then crawl backward back here, but that would take too long, and he didn't like the idea of crawling backward long distances. But he got a bold idea: He would remove the vent grating, and use the extra space thus made available to himself around.

After thinking for a minute how he would do it, and checking that the coast was clear, he removed the grating, crawled halfway across the open hole, and lowered one of his legs through it. Being still unable to turn, he let the other leg down, so that the lower half of his body was dangling into the hallway. As he released one of his hands to bring it to the other side of the hole, he felt himself sliding downward. The metal was too smooth; his hand couldn't get any purchase on it. This was bad! With his free (left) arm Arnold grabbed everything he could, which was nothing, until he finally clasped the broken wooden board. This was at least rough enough for Arnold to hang onto.

At this point Arnold was hanging by his arms with his head was below the ceiling of the hallway. One of his hands was grabbing the board, the other trying to grip the metal floor of the duct. The latter he moved to the board which, by repeated jerks of his arms, he then moved so that it ran across the middle of the opening, with approximately equal gaps on both sides. Arnold turned himself, then hauled himself up a bit. It was hard to get back inside the opening, mainly because there was nothing to grab further up than the board: He could do a chin-up well enough, but he couldn't advance his grip. Finally Arnold managed to get one of his feet onto the edge of the hole, and this enabled him to push/pull his body awkardly back through the hole. Arnold was sweating a bit…but he had succeeded!

He then picked up the vent grating by its sides and replaced it, but in doing so he got his fingers painfully pinched between it and the edge of the hole. Arnold struggled for a second or two and finally freed his fingers; the grating clanged to rest.

Arnold looked at his stinging fingers and that one of them had been cut on the knuckle side; it was bleeding. He put the bloody finger in his mouth to sooth it. As he sat there, peering down into the grating, his memory swam back to that day. He was standing under the airduct with Gerald, as his Grandma read him some phone message. Behind her he saw, looking up…struggling fingers coming out of the sides of that vent! Helga's fingers! Poor Helga, thought Arnold. She had just replaced this cover, and she pinched herself like me. Why had Helga opened the grating in the first place? He tried to remember what Grandma was saying.

She was telling him about a phone message from someone…Helen of Troy? But Grandma had been distracted, and she started with the first syllable…Helga! He remembered other details. When Helga came flying into his room, she was clutching a small cassette tape. A cassette tape just like the tape his answering machine used! He never really thought about it before, but now he was sure: Helga took a tape from his answering machine. She must have lowered herself on that rope, grabbed the tape, climbed back up, and crawled to the couch space to make her escape. Arnold was in awe. It was, he thought, a truly awesome performance.

Arnold briefly wondered what, indeed, was on that tape which could call forth so heroic a rescue attempt. But, he thought, she succeeded. Now there was no way to know what was on the tape…Arnold corrected himself: There was _one_ way…

At this point Arnold was content to end the investigation. This was enough for one day, at least! As he crawled forward through the airduct, his mind came back to the dream. Perhaps if he had rushed into the cave, immediately struck the giant with his sword-pommel in the toe, then knocked him out with another such blow to the groin or head, he would have had pretty good odds of cutting Helga's ropes with the sword and escaping scot-free before the foe recovered.

As Arnold re-emerged from the airduct, he was tempted—who knows how strongly?—to leap for the hanging rope, swing into the wall, and test whether the couch would spit him out. But he resisted the urge; the hole in the floor drew him instead. He studied it intently. Wherever it came from, its size and location made it impossible to put a sleeping bag down. He would have to patch it up if Grandma would stay there. He came closer, bent low, and put his head partially into it. The bottom was a rather flimsy-looking grey plane. Plaster…concrete…painted wood? What was it? Arnold put his ear to the bottom. He could hear the faint sounds of someone—Grandpa, no doubt—cooking breakfast. So…the bottom must be in the kitchen ceiling. In fact, Arnold almost thought he could _smell _Grandpa's cooking through the hole. He decided to tell him about it, since the hole needed fixing immediately and he'd probably need help.

As Arnold flipped through the couch, he was thankful that he didn't repeat Helga's experiment. If it had worked, the remote would have been left on the other side! He brushed off the dust and cobwebs from his pajamas and went carefully downstairs.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] I warned you, didn't I?<p>

[2] The description of this space in the series is not consistent. In "Helga blabs it all" it is a large room with a window, accessible from the airduct. In "Helga's Parrot" it seems to be a small closed alcove with no exit whatsoever. In "Parrot" Helga ought to have been able to escape by the route she followed in "Blabs." We assume that the space is as in "Blabs," but the hole is real.


	7. Extra, extra

As Arnold quietly entered the kitchen, he glanced up at the ceiling. Although he'd never noticed it before, one good-sized patch was a very slightly different shade of green from the rest of it.

"Morning, shortman!" said Phil a moment later. "Care for some breakfast?"

"Sure, Grandpa."

"Here, you can read this while you wait. Turns out your shenanigans yesterday made the front page!"

Grandpa handed Arnold a newspaper, which the boy set gently aside.

"So," said Arnold, "this morning I went into that space you were talking about, you know, behind my couch."

"Oh? Did you dust it off a little, shortman?"

"Grandpa, there's a huge hole in the floor. I don't think a sleeping bag can fit unless we put some boards over it or something."

"So it was big, eh?" he asked coolly. "How big was this hole, would you say?"

"I think I could fall through it if I tilted my head the right way," said Arnold.

"Oh, so _that's_ where it comes out!" said Grandpa with a smile. "Let me tell you a funny story, shortman: A few months ago, I was sitting at this very table with Pookie. Suddenly I heard a ferocious pounding above our heads. Cracks appeared in the ceiling, little feet kicked a hole in it, and you'll never guess who fell through!"

Arnold had a different opinion about his guessing odds, but he kept it to himself.

"It was your little friend with the pink bow, Helga Pataki: your secret admirer!"

Indeed Arnold's faith in his guessing skill (and emotional stability) was so great that he was now taking sip of milk. This, however, proved to be a mistake.

"Helga!?" he exclaimed after wiping the milk from his face. "You mean Helga _kicked_ a hole through the floor, _and_ the ceiling, and fell into the kitchen?"

"Yes sir. She fell right on the table and broke it! Then she got up and hobbled out the door. Didn't even look at us. She was in a foul mood, I could see."

"Grandpa, when did this happen?"

"Well, let's see… hmm… it was just after you left for school…ah, now I remember: It was on the day you brought that parrot to school with you."

Oh God, thought Arnold. Come to think of it, Helga did seem a bit under the weather that day, though she cheered up after the parrot was eaten. But holy cow! How long had she been there? Did she sleep there overnight, on the cold, hard floor without blanket or pillow?

"How come I never found out?" asked Arnold. "I guess you must have patched up the ceiling pretty fast if I never noticed the damage."

"Oh yeah, I did the whole thing while you were at school. Took just about all day too, even with your Grandma's help. But when we were done, it looked almost as good as new."

"Why didn't you tell me about it, Grandpa? I would have helped."

"Well, Arnold, we figured either you knew Helga was there, or you didn't know. My guess was: you didn't know. _That_ was confirmed when you came back from school in one piece—oh, you should have seen her face, shortman! Anyway, we decided if you didn't know she was there, we wouldn't spoil the secret for her. We figured she'd tell you about it when she was ready!"

Arnold wasn't so sure about that last part.

"Well," he said, "I guess there's a lot I don't know about Helga."

"Yep," replied Grandpa, and that was it.

Truly, Arnold had no desire to wheedle any more strange Helga stories out of his Grandpa right now. He actually felt a bit guilty just for finding about the hole. To pry open behind her back, for Arnold's amusement, all the secrets of the girl who loved him "not wisely, but too well," would have felt wrong.

"I can cover that hole with some boards and stuff," said Arnold. "I'll look in the garage and tell you if I need anything we don't have."

"That can wait until after breakfast. Here, shortman, read this article. I think you'll find the second half interesting."

Arnold looked at the paper. On the rightmost column of the front page, beside a large aerial photo of the destroyed overpass, he read

[Begin blockquote]

* * *

><p><em><strong>CHAOS ON VINE STREET<strong>_  
>MULTIPLE BOMB BLASTS<br>HIGHWAY OVERPASS DESTROYED  
>FTI RENEWAL PLAN QUASHED—<br>CEO ARRESTED

Hillwood, August 10th—

A bizarre series of events unfolded this morning on Vine Street, which saw the destruction of a highway overpass and a brownstone by explosives, the wrecking of several bulldozers and a city bus, the annulment of an urban development plan of Future Tech Industries Inc. (FTI), and the disgrace and arrest of its CEO, Alphonse Scheck. The main facts, attested by multiple eyewitnesses, are as follows.

The neighborhood which was the scene of these events was scheduled to be demolished by FTI's bulldozers beginning at 7:00 AM today. The first sign of trouble came at about 6:59, when a massive explosion tore through the Route 50 overpass one block north of Vine street, showering the street with rubble and leaving a gap in the highway about 40 feet long.

Over the next two minutes, many things happened simultaneously. The bulldozers began to move according to schedule, but an elderly woman in prison garb commandeered one of them, throwing the driver out of the cab, and proceeded to flip or otherwise disable all the other bulldozers in less than a minute. "It was amazing," said the driver of the hijacked dozer. "I never saw anyone use a bulldozer like that in my life. She grabbed each one with the blade, from the rear, and flipped it like it was made of paper." The hijacker was identified as Gertrude ~~~~~~~[1], 81, who was arrested last week in connection with an illegal concert at the same location, but escaped from jail according to police spokesmen. She is still at large, and is considered extremely dangerous.

At the same time, city bus number 13, which was speeding down route 50 at about 70 miles per hour, came to the gap in the highway and jumped over it. The bus landed on the highway, careened down an off ramp and onto Vine Street, and finally had a glancing head-on collision with the bulldozer commandeered by Gertrude, who had abandoned ship moments before. The bus flipped on its side and skidded to a halt.

By this time a crowd had gathered. The three passengers, but not the driver, then emerged from the bus. They were three local fourth-graders, two boys and a girl. Despite numerous attempts, none of them could be reached for comment, and under the circumstances our privacy policy on young children precludes naming them.

One of the boys produced a video tape which had evidently been taken from the FTI headquarters outside of town. At this time the bus was lying between two buildings: the Sunset Arms boarding house and an abandoned apartment building, which FTI had recently equipped with a huge outdoor television monitor. As soon as the tape was produced, a teenage girl in a bright blue jumpsuit took a zip-line from the top of the latter building to the bus carrying a VCR, which was connected to the monitor by long cables. The tape was then played on the monitor, so that the crowd could see it.

The tape showed Mr. Scheck burning a document which was understood to have established the condemned neighborhood as an historic landmark, in respect of its role in the well-known Tomato Incident of 1845[2]. Mayor Dixie, who had arrived by this time, then proclaimed the neighborhood a historic landmark "never to be torn down." And indeed, according to eyewitnesses, the changed mood of the public had made any immediate demolition work impossible.

Immediately thereafter, Mr. Scheck arrived in a self-driven black sedan. Incensed at the lack of progress, he berated the workers. But on seeing the tape, he re-entered his car and prepared to drive away. The two boys from the bus stood in front of his car, and, according to numerous accounts, Mr. Scheck slammed on the gas pedal in an attempt to run them over. But, although it had only been there for a few seconds, the front wheels of his car had already been removed, and the car rested on cinder blocks. It was immobile, and the boys were completely unharmed. Mr. Scheck was then arrested on charges of fraud and false statements, and driven away as the crowd cheered.

Authorities suggested that charges of attempted murder were being contemplated in connection with the incident involving the two boys.

The crowd had begun to disperse when a second, very large explosion rocked Vine Street, which destroyed the large monitor and reduced the building that supported it to rubble. At this point the crowd accelerated its dispersal. For a few minutes, the street was utterly empty, until police and news media re-entered the zone of action. Most of the witnesses we spoke to were encountered at least a block away from the scene, or called on the phone after they had already gone home.

The cause of the explosions remains a mystery. One source familiar with the investigation, who requested anonymity because he was not authorized to speak to the press, suggested that the overpass had been destroyed by embittered local residents. "We know that many of the locals were strongly against the demolition. Our best theory at this point is that some of the more dangerous ones decided to sabotage the overpass, to reduce the accessibility of the proposed mall as a form of revenge. The disruption to traffic," the source added, "greatly reduces the value of the area to FTI."

It was more difficult to establish a motive for the second explosion, especially given the timing. "Although the screen must have been an attractive target for vandalism among the local malcontents," our source said, "the actual loss to FTI was negligible next to the overpass, especially when you consider that the building was already going to be destroyed. Moreover, the explosion happened _after_ the demolition had been stopped. Although we're looking at it very closely, the second explosion may have been some kind of accident."

FTI's board of directors issued a press release saying they were "shocked and dismayed" that they were brought so close to destroying a historically and culturally significant area to make way for their project. "Had we known of the existence of this document, we would never have countenanced Mr. Scheck's plan." The directors refrained from commenting further on Mr. Scheck, citing possible litigation based on the results of an internal investigation. The press release did say, however, that FTI would make "every effort" to sell the surviving neighborhood buildings back to their original owners.

The question of how the three children acquired the tape from FTI headquarters and came to Vine Street in the bus has proven even more impenetrable. The bus driver, Murray, refused comment, citing his Fifth Amendment rights. And despite numerous, persistent attempts to contact the children, by phone and in person, they either declined comment or could not be found. Their role is one of the great as-yet-unexplained mysteries of this dramatic incident.

* * *

><p>[End blockquote]<p>

Arnold put the paper down. Among the things which surprised him, the least important was that "numerous attempts" had been made to contact him. It must have been while he was gone.

"Grandpa," he said, "it seems like this article is saying _you_ blew up the highway overpass. How could that happen? I mean, you _saw _Nick do it with your own eyes!"

"Well, yeah, shortman," Grandpa began, "…actually, I was just about the only person who did see him, besides the construction workers of course. The boarders who were with me in the foxhole didn't have binoculars. Basically, unless the construction workers give him up, Nick probably won't get caught."

"But Grandpa, why didn't you tell the police what you saw?"

"Well, Arnold, they actually _did_ ask me about it. When they were searching the place for Pookie, a detective sat me down at this table and asked me if I knew anything about the explosions. I told them I wasn't going to talk about any explosions unless I had a lawyer present, and maybe not even then."

"But what about Nick? Don't you want him to go to jail for what he did?"

"Oh sure, Arnold, but you see, I knew all about _both_ explosions, and I didn't think it'd be fair to tell them about just one of them and not the other. Besides, if I started throwing accusations against Nick, some of those people might remember seeing some wire in the street near the boarding house…and even if I had told them, he might have just denied it and got the workers to agree with him. Besides Arnold, it's not like I _lied_ to the cops, I just refused to talk about it. I can still tell them later."

Arnold was a bit baffled by all this. Indeed, he realized that he basically had no idea at all what one ought to do in something like this. Although Grandpa's course seemed vaguely similar to Arnold's own conduct in Principle Wartz's office a while back, it felt like he screwed up by not talking about the overpass, as if he had something to hide.

"Basically, shortman," continued Grandpa, "I'm sure they'll never pin the overpass on me, on account of I didn't do it. And although I _am _a bit worried that they'll get me for the second one, I still think that we're safe as long as nobody talks. Although, Arnold, actually," and here Grandpa allowed some concern to show in his voice, "I think it wouldn't hurt to get your story out in the press; you know, get some sympathy. After all, you deserve it, and it might help people decide not to send your Grandpa to jail."

Oh God, thought Arnold. Had it really come to that? Arnold was startled. He wanted to do everything he could for Grandpa, but, he wasn't sure going to the press was the right thing to do just yet. He remembered something Bridget said.

"Grandpa, do you think we should get a lawyer?"

"Trouble is, shortman, we haven't really got any money. Lawyers are expensive. And given how messed up this case is, I doubt anyone would take it _pro bono _unless I knew him personally. And all the lawyers I know personally are either dead or retired." Or crooked, he added under his breath.

Arnold sat there quietly. The situation seemed pretty serious, and he hadn't the slightest idea what to do. His only, hope, it seemed, was that Bridget would call him with something he hadn't thought of. In any case, there was no use moping around. After taking some time to think of something quasi-positive to say, he got up from the table.

"Grandpa," he'd settled on, "I'm going to go to the garage for stuff to patch up that hole. If anyone calls for me and tries to leave a message, please write it down _very_ carefully. It might be important."

As Arnold walked out of the kitchen he thought about Grandpa's suggestion. It might actually be a good idea, but there was one huge problem: Helga! He couldn't tell the true story without exposing Helga's role, and if she still wanted to keep her love a secret…Arnold knew that he had to talk to Helga very soon. He stood near the phone with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. He wanted to call her, to talk to her, to meet her, but he was scared. He felt he couldn't talk to her without being torn his by longing for (and, indeed, duty of) telling her his true feelings, and the dread of doing so. But he _needed_ to talk to her. He decided on a cowardly, but plausible compromise. First he would patch the hole, _then _call Helga. He went back into the kitchen.

"Grandpa, how _do _you patch over a hole in the floor?" he asked.

"Well, Arnold, to do it right takes a lot of work. You need plaster, and probably some insulation, and in fact you really need to rip out the broken floorboards and replace them completely. But I know you have other things to do, so I suggest for now you just take some thick boards and nail them across the opening. I'll take you to the hardware store and we'll pick some out."

* * *

><p>As they drove towards the hardware store, Arnold noticed that the bus had been removed; the road was clear. Although many of the windows near the boarding house were still boarded up, some were not, and foot traffic had started to reappear. The wrecked overpass, however, loomed like an omen of destruction over it all.<p>

The trip itself was quite uneventful. When Arnold got back home, on his way up to his room he stopped to check the answering machine for messages. There were several, but all of them were from journalists seeking comment on yesterday's events. Bridget hadn't called, and neither, thought Arnold with a lingering hint of mischief, had Helga.

* * *

><p>Arnold got to work. He was determined to go as good a job as he could, considering the basic incorrectness of the whole repair plan. Indeed he was very careful to lay the boards flush against each other, and to pound the nails down flat, so that their heads didn't stick up where they could snag or poke the bottom of a sleeping bag. He even took a large file and began grinding down the edges of the outer boards, so that they would have sloping sides instead of jutting sharply upward from the floor. Thus Arnold continued filing until, having realized that he was doing this only to postpone his inevitable phone call to Helga, he became disgusted with his cowardice, put down his tools, went to the phone, and dialed her number.<p>

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] The last name was smudged.<p>

[2] The 1845 date assumes that the Tomato Incident happened in the context of the real-life Oregon Boundary Dispute (see Wikipedia) which was resolved in 1846. It is compatabile with the alleged participation of Grandpa's paternal grandfather (born in 1830 according to "Grandpa's Birthday") as well as the fact that the Incident predates the Pig War (1859 in real life). That Hillwood is located in the then-disputed area is attested by the great balance of the available evidence (see heyarnolddotwikiadotcom / wiki / Hillwood ).


	8. Gerald field

"Hello?" said Miriam Pataki.

"Hi, uh, this is Arnold. Can I speak to Helga please?"

"Oh sure, just a moment...Helga! Your friend Arnie's on the phone!"

Helga, at least at first, was happy to hear from Arnold. Her voice sounded relaxed.

"Hello, Arnold?"

"Hi Helga. Can we, uh, meet somewhere? I think we need to talk."

"Talk?" asked Helga somewhat more irritatedly, "About what?"

After sighing Arnold said, "About, well, ah, about everything, I guess. I mean… It's just…I'd rather not mention it over the phone."

Arnold's obvious anguish had its effect: Helga now sounded genuinely concerned. "OK, Arnold, where do you want to go?"

"Well, I don't know, maybe we could go down to the river and throw stones at a dumpster, or something…or maybe I could just pick you up at your place and we can see where we might go."

Helga's response was calm, but businesslike:

"Well, the dumpster idea sounds fine, but you shouldn't come to my place, it's being watched. We'll meet at Gerald field at eleven hundred."

"OK, Helga. Sounds good."

"Bye, Arnold." She hung up.

As Arnold's guts uncoiled themselves, he realized how clever it was of Helga to propose Gerald field as the meeting place. The name, as they both knew, was only meaningful to Arnold's classmates; any cops who were listening wouldn't know where to go. Arnold decided to preserve this advantage as long as possible. So, although he was leaving too much time to get there by conventional walking, he immediately left the boarding house by the back door and disappeared among the alleys.

The one problem with Gerald field was that as a favorite hang-out spot of Arnold's friends, it was a place he and Helga were sure to be seen. Strictly speaking, thought Arnold as he walked, "we" aren't sure to be seen there, since we'll leave immediately, but one of us is sure to be seen waiting for the other one. He decided that he must not only go to Gerald field without being followed, but stay there without being seen. He needed to find some place where he could hide, but still watch the field for Helga's arrival. Did such a place exist? He'd try to see what there was, although it was risky even to scout the place out for any length of time.

As he followed this logical, but bitter-tasting and rather paranoid line of reasoning Arnold felt a tremendous upsurge of sympathy for Helga. It seemed to him that just now, for basically the first time, he'd xperienced a small taste of what she had been going through for years…and it sucked. Had Helga been spending her whole life hiding like this, sneaking as it were from cover to cover, hiding from the world, from their friends, from him , most of all, from her own feelings? Arnold felt the terrible weight of this need to hide himself all the more acutely because of its novelty. "Really," he said to himself, "if I ever got to the point where this crap was normal, I'd probably be a hundred times worse than Helga ever was."

* * *

><p>Gerald field (as you recall) was a square-ish lot with a street along one side. The other three sides were continuously bracketed by a single two-story building. Looking down from above, so that the adjacent street runs horizontally across the top of Gerald field, one sees another, vertical street which borders the embracing building on the left. This street tees off the adjacent one and continues upward out of sight. Across the adjacent street are some free-standing brownstones, between which inviting alleys offer as good a place as any to stealthily observe the field.[1] After a long and convoluted walk Arnold arrived, and directed his movements tither.<p>

He walked up the vertical street, with Gerald field and its building on his right, then crossed the adjacent street and went one block past it, turning right so as to enter the chosen alley from above. With another right turn he entered it and ambled slowly, his hands in his pockets, seeming to look at nothing in particular, but carefully scanning the area for a good hiding place.

As Arnold walked he noticed, again on his right, a large blue dumpster with two half-lids, and loopholes on its sides for garbage-truck lifting prongs. This dumpster was so near the end of the alley that from inside Arnold would have a pretty good view of most, if not all of the field. Its disadvantages were that it would be necessary to lift the lid slightly in order to see (which might be noticed), and also that since the entirety of the field and its approaches was not visible, he might miss Helga's arrival. But the first of these could be mitigated to a degree by looking out of the rearward lid-panel, and although the second was insurmountable, Arnold could sally from the dumpster to the end of the alley to look around, after checking that the coast was clear. In any case, it was much better than standing around in the open.

So, Arnold made his decision. Approaching the field (which looked empty) through the alley, he came level with the dumpster at a relaxed walking pace. Suddenly he turned and sprung at it. His foot touched the dumpster wall about halfway up; he grabbed the lid and lip with his hands and forced it open, lifted his legs to the side and pulled himself over the lip in a single fluid motion, which took much less time to perform than to describe. He landed smartly among the trash.

* * *

><p>"You're late, football-head."<p>

Arnold started. It is well that the dumpster had a lid, for if not he might have flown right back out.

"Helga? What are you doing here?" He knew he should have said something better, but he was too shocked.

"Waiting for you, of course. You were supposed to be here _minutes _ago…What kept you?"

"Helga...I…I…I…I…" Arnold was stammering. He could barely make out Helga's form, and… his heart was engulfed in a seething, furious tempest of emotion. He wanted to tell her, he _had _to tell her, but…but…

"You _what?_"

Arnold had to do it. It was now or never. There they were, in perfect privacy, with no prying eyes, no listening ears, no sound except the buzzing of the flies, surrounded only by metal walls and rotting garbage: an opportunity like this only comes once in a lifetime.

"Helga—I love you!"

Arnold scrambled forward over the garbage bags, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her on the lips. All her prickliness melted away, and soon she was, if we may be permitted to say so, furiously making out with her "football-headed love god."

Great as was Arnold's transport, he never permitted himself to collapse in Helga's arms and drag them both down into the garbage, which would then have rubbed against their torsos as well as their legs. But we shouldn't give him too much credit for this, since Helga was in the corner of the dumpster and practically leaning against it, so that it would not have been easy to fall unless Arnold pulled her backward.

She herself was quite content to continue the kissing. Probably, it was not entirely clear to her whether she was dreaming or not. If she was dreaming, why interrupt? Let her keep going until she woke up. But if it was real…similar considerations applied, with the added bonus that she could question and/or pound her beloved football-head later, when it was over.

That it was real, however, was strongly suggested about two-thirds of a minute after the kissing began, when the dumpster lid briefly popped open and a carelessly thrown bag of soft garbage struck Arnold in the back. This, without quite killing the mood, provided an occasion for pause and sober reflection, silent until the dwindling patter of oblivious footsteps convinced our heroes that it was, in fact, safe to speak.

"So, Arnold," asked Helga dreamily, "was _this_ what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Well, it was a bigpart of it, but…Helga, I was afraid I couldn't bring myself to say it. But even if I failed, even if I never said it, we still would have had other things to talk about."

"I'm sure... but those things can wait a little, can't they?"

Arnold agreed with this, and the kissing resumed.

* * *

><p>Eventually Arnold and Helga decided that they had expressed themselves sufficiently.<p>

"What should we do now?" she asked. "You said you had other things you wanted to talk about?"

"Yeah," said Arnold, "but I'd rather do it somewhere a little…cleaner."

They agreed to jointly determine whether the coast was clear. Helga looked towards Gerald field, Arnold back through the alley. In the course of his duties Arnold noticed to his mild chagrin that if he wanted to look out of the dumpster with one eye, he had to open the lid dangerously wide to accommodate the long dimension of his head. So instead he opened it a bit less, and looked out with two eyes.

Anyway, the coast was clear. Helga and Arnold walked back out of the alley. Arnold tried to hold Helga's hand, but she demurred until they got on the bus and confirmed that no one they knew was on board. On the bus, they sat and enjoyed each other's company, in near silence. Arnold thought he might be expected to say something, and he realized to his great horror that he actually forgot a fair portion of what he had intended to tell her. As he wracked his brain, he remembered that the main thing was what to tell the world about how Helga had helped him. This was a painful subject, because bringing it up suggested that Helga and Arnold's loved was doomed to go underground; Arnold (whose vocabulary wasn't too bad) even thought of the word "entombed."

So, for now, he just sat there with Helga. They got off the bus near the docks and started walking, and it was then that Arnold finally brought himself to say something.

"So, Helga, how have you been?" he asked stupidly.

"Well, Arnold, not too great. My Dad got arrested this morning, for assaulting Nick Vermicelli yesterday."

"Oh, Helga, I'm sorry," said Arnold.

"Don't feel too bad, Arnold. I mean, he _did _do it."

"Yeah, but only after Nick almost killed us by blowing up the overpass," said Arnold.

"WHAT?" said Helga. "You mean that was _Nick?_"

Arnold was shocked by Helga's ignorance—too shocked, really.

"My Grandpa told me he saw Nick pull the trigger with his own eyes, from his foxhole in front of the boarding house. It was a remote detonator."

"Wow, Arnold. I can't believe he blew up the highway without even looking to see if anyone was driving on it. That's practically murder!"

Here Arnold had a twinge of mixed feelings. He remembered what his Grandpa said about letting accusations fly around, and it occurred to him that he might have to proceed with caution even with his beloved Helga…but he soon burned with shame for thinking such disloyal thoughts.

"Actually," he said, "Grandpa saw it, but I'm not sure if his testimony will be any good, if the other witnesses deny it…and he told me he actually _didn't _say anything about it to the cops when they questioned him this morning."

"But isn't that a bit strange? I mean, why wouldn't he tell the them? It's not like he'd get in trouble."

"Well…Helga…uh, my Grandpa's under a cloud of suspicion about that second explosion, the one that destroyed the big screen. And by 'cloud of suspicion,' I mean he set the charges, strung the wire, and only didn't pull the trigger because Grandma came in and wrecked the bulldozers for him. After everything was over, Harold sat down on the plunger and blew it up."

"Harold!? That fat idiot! Why, if I see him I'll pound him so flat he could fit through a mail slot!"

"No, don't do that Helga...it was an accident. And besides, if you hurt him, he might spill the beans by mistake." But, thought Arnold darkly, if they get Grandpa because of it, I don't think I'll stop you.

"Well…fine."

"Basically, Helga, my Grandpa's scared that if accusations start flying around, he'll get tagged with that explosion, and go to jail, probably for life at his age. And my Grandma is already on the run…"

Now Helga was staggered. For the first time, she realized the magnitude of Arnold's loss, and his danger. His parents disappeared at age one, probably dead, now his Grandma a fugitive, perhaps never to see him again. If Grandpa was arrested, Arnold would be shipped off to foster care, or worse! Poor Arnold! Helga still had one parent at home out of two. Arnold had already lost three, and was working on number four! She pressed him into her side as they walked.

"Arnold, is there anything we can do?" she asked.

"I don't really know," he sighed, "it's all so complicated. Getting that tape was nothing compared to sorting out this stuff. The only thing Grandpa suggested was that if we told our story in the newspapers, people might sympathize enough to keep him out of jail. "

"I don't know, Arnold; that sounds pretty naïve to me."

An earlier, less sensitive Helga might have called it the stupidest idea she ever heard. Arnold sighed again.

"I guess that's the other thing I wanted to talk about today. Helga, we're going to have to tell the world eventually, and I mean pretty soon, how we got that tape. I think that means that, either we tell them _why_ you helped us get it, or…or I guess we'll have to lie…Now, I think we ought to just tell them the whole truth. I mean, they'll probably tease us, but how bad could it be?"

"Well, Arnold, I appreciate the sentiment, but get real. I mean, you jumped into a dumpster full of trash just so you wouldn't be seen _waiting_ for me." She sighed. "And it's not like I was any better. No, Arnold, for now I think the _whole _truth is completely out of the question."

"Helga," he replied not without some subterranean relief, "even if we can't talk about _us_, I think we have to tell the whole story about how you helped us. I mean, we never could have succeeded without you. If we told them a story where you didn't get your full share of credit for saving the neighborhood, I'd just feel terrible. Is there any other motive that would make sense?"

But the discussion of Helga's motive would have to wait, for at that moment her cellphone rang.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] I'm sorry not to be able to refer you to "Fig. 1," but the format does not allow it.<p> 


	9. Storytime with Uncle Earl

"Hello?"

"Hi, can I speak to Arnold, please?" asked the sweet-sounding voice of a young lady.

"What? Who is this?"

"It's a friend of his. Please…I need to speak to Arnold."

Helga handed him the phone.

"It's for you," she said annoyedly.

"Uh, hello?" said a somewhat bewildered Arnold.

"Arnold! How's it going? How'd you like to go for a boat ride?" asked Bridget.

"Uh, a boat ride?"

Bridget's voice changed.

"Arr, yes, I think a boat ride'd be just the thing f'r ye."

"OK, sounds great!" said Arnold.

"Good," said Bridget, "I'll be seeing you soon. Of course Helga can come too." She hung up. Arnold handed Helga her phone and started looking around for a person in a yellow raincoat.

"Who was _that?_"

"Oh, it was Bridget," said Arnold.

"Who the HECK is Bridget?"

Then Arnold (as the saying goes) figured something out.

"Oh, Helga," he said, "I thought everyone knew Bridget. She's the girl who gave Gerald and I our fancy utility belts and stuff. She's also the one who played that tape on the big screen after the bus crash."

"Oh…_that _Bridget. So you're going for a boat ride?"

"You're invited too. Actually, I spoke to her yesterday and she's going to try to help us. Oh look, I think that's her."

Arnold pointed at a small boat which was turning into shore.

"Isn't that Sheena's uncle Earl?"

"No, I think it's Bridget in disguise."

* * *

><p>They walked to the edge of a short unused pier and waited for the boat to come in. Helga had some questions for Bridget, if that was her real name.<p>

"Hop in," said Bridget in her usual voice. Arnold went first, and Helga followed. As soon as the boat had got clear of the dock, Bridget turned to them.

"Helga! It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm sorry I didn't get to introduce myself at the crash site; I'm Bridget."

"So…Bridget, I don't mean to be rude, but _who are you? _And why the disguise?"

"Well, Helga, I'm a senior at the Hillwood high school of science. I moonlight as a manufacturer of spy equipment, though I have been known to dabble in the _art_ a bit as well. As for the disguise, well, after my face was blasted all over the evening news, I wanted some privacy. Plus we had to move our headquarters recently and I need to do a lot of water travel, so it fit."

Helga's mood softened a bit.

"And how did you end up calling my phone? Were you patrolling up and down the shore waiting for us to show up? And how did you get my phone number?"

"Well, Helga, I looked up your phone number because I thought there was a good chance you and Arnold would be together, I mean, from the way you two were looking at each other at the crash site…anyway Helga, I promised to try to find Arnold some help with his legal problems, and although I had his number, I preferred not to call him on his house phone. It's tapped, you see."

"What makes you think that?" asked Helga. She also thought so, but it made sense to pick Bridget's brain while she was there.

"It was just a guess, really. They probably tapped it a day or two before the demolition, to see if Arnold's grandpa would try anything illegal. But, Helga, we've been spying the crap out of the district attorney's office, and now I'm sure they're doing it. They have their reasons: first, Arnold's Grandma is on the run and she might try to call them. In fact, that's the only reason they need, although I know they suspect him of organizing the blowing up of the overpass."

"So it was true," said Arnold, "what the paper said? They really think the _overpass _was Grandpa's fault?"

"Well, I'm not sure if they really _think_ that, but for now they're trying to pin it on him. Really, they'd like to get him for either explosion, but the overpass is the one that makes sense in terms a motive."

If Arnold was crestfallen, he hid it well enough.

"Bridget," he asked after a short pause, "you were at the scene of the bus crash. Can you tell me something? Grandpa says that, even though some people saw Harold sit on the plunger, and even more people saw the building come down, well…he still thinks he'll get away with it. He says that after he started running, no one was chasing him. It was really empty, and he disappeared with the wire before anyone could get it on film. Do you think that's really possible?"

And Arnold remembered with painful suddenness that the news media had arrived on the scene almost immediately after he did, well before Harold set off the bomb. How could they fail to record Grandpa's guilt? Arnold wasn't sure what he was more afraid of: the cold, hard truth, or that Bridget, whom he trusted, would lie to spare his feelings. She, meanwhile, gave Arnold a long, tender, sympathetic look. Her face suggested (or would have suggested, had she not been wearing a large fake beard) a strange mixture of knowing sadness and regret.

"Arnold," she began, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but the truth is…your Grandpa's escape from the cameras was no coincidence. What I'm about to tell you," she added firmly, receiving in response expressions of assent, "must never leave this boat. I'm not proud of what we had to do.

"You might have wondered how I showed up so quickly after the bus crashed. In fact, my teammates and I were already there; we were watching the whole scene since well before the overpass blew up. We were more than watching, Arnold. We were prepared-or at least, as prepared as anyone can be-to intervene. We had a few different plans for getting involved, and ample equipment on site. I don't just mean spying equipment, but equipment for creating a disturbance, for getting away unpursued, the destruction of evidence, even"-her face was white and grave-"for certain types of fighting. I'm only saying this...so you'll be able to believe what's coming next.

"Of course, we saw your Grandpa in the foxhole, with his plunger. Let's just say, Arnold, that how to swoop in and save him was a subject of serious discussion. In fact we realized it was basically all we could do, since it would have been crazy to try to stop the bulldozers on our own."

"If you were watching everything," suggested Arnold, "you must have seen Nick blow up the overpass."

"Yes, Arnold, we did. It was terrible to watch it knowing that we were capable of stopping him, but we didn't dare do it. I'm…I'm really sorry, guys."

"Oh, don't worry about that Bridget," said Helga. "We don't care about the bus jump, it was cool…but did you get _video_ of them doing it?"

"Why, actually, yes I did. I had a small camera, and from my position on the back of Scheck's great monitor, I recorded them setting the charges, and I even got footage of Nick pushing the button. I recorded the bus jump too, which you _totally_ need to explain—I thought you were going to die! Anyway, after you cleared the overpass I put the camera down and we talked for a bit.

"What happened next is history. I ziplined down to the bus with a VCR—don't ask what we were planning to put on if you didn't show up!—and we played the tape. But when I came down, I left the camcorder under the monitor. I never went back up there, and when the building came down I'm sure it was crushed beneath the wreckage."

"Ahh," said Arnold, "I guess my Grandpa's luck is pretty bad. He blew up his own proof of innocence!"

"I'm afraid so," said Bridget. "But, I was about to explain why the TV people weren't around to watch the second explosion. And when I'm done," she added firmly, "you won't think your Grandpa's luck is as bad as all that."

"Bridget," interrupted Helga, "Where are we going?"

Indeed, Bridget appears to have been so absorbed in the conversation as to utterly neglect her steering duties. The boat had been heading straight out from shore into the wide river, in a pretty straight line, and was just now passing the tip of Elk Island. After uttering a minor expletive ("crap") and thanking Helga, she turned left about 135 degrees, setting her course towards a distance multi-arched bridge, visible in the clear weather.

"So, Arnold," she resumed, "there I was. The cameras had taken some striking footage of me ziplining down onto the bus; the Mayor had arrived and made her statement. When the mayor left, one of the news crews followed her. There were two left. I remembered your Grandpa's plunger, which he seemed to have left totally exposed. I had…a premonition of doom. Somehow, I just knew that something terrible was going to happen. I _had _to distract those cameras, somehow. So, even as Scheck's car drove up to the scene, and the dramatic arrest was about to begin, I walked up to the remaining journalists and started yapping away like I was the _Encyclopedia Britannica_. I don't think it hurt that I walked a certain way, smiled a certain way, batted my eyelashes, and winked at some of the cameramen. Typical males. Anyway, even as the drama with Scheck was happening, I managed to hold the attention of those news crews.[1] And not by looks alone! I was talking my head off, and I told them I had to get going, let's walk and talk. So there I am, walking briskly down the street backwards, smiling sweetly at the press, acting like I know _everything _about you kids, just telling them every BS thing that comes into my head, starting with the true stuff. I told them I gave Arnold and Gerald their equipment, taught them everything they know, and so on, I described the things I supposedly taught you. It was the most insane thing I had ever done, I was just talking and talking and talking, dragging those cameras away from the scene.

"I kept talking. Someone shouted a question about Helga. I made up this ridiculous but endearing story about her, that she secretly loved Arnold since kindergarten but always hid it by taunting and bullying him, but her secret love inspired her to help Arnold find the document (of course he was looking for a document originally and not a tape). She gave him information about where to get the document, anonymously at first, but finally she went to the building with the two of them, and she was inspired by Arnold's heroism to finally confess her love to him and together they found the tape and escaped and came here and how super sweet it all was…"

Here, Bridget trailed off. She found Helga's face a bit, shall we say, distracting. Apart from its color (red), I will not attempt to describe how it looked.

"You told them **WHAT?**" she bellowed.

"Uh, look Helga," said Bridget (having blushed a bit and nervously adjusted the alignment of her beard), "I mean, I was making this stuff up on the spot. I was under a lot of pressure! I _had_ to keep talking, it was the only thing I could think of right then, and you have to admit, it's a pretty cute story…"

"You mean...you told the TV News that I secretly loved Arnold for years, _while they were _**FILMING YOU?**" Helga was shaking with rage.

"Relax, Helga, it's not as bad as it sounds. Just let me finish."

At this point Helga had two options. She could leap upon Bridget and beat her to a bloody pulp, or she could keep the lid on and follow her suggestion. After a sharp internal struggle, she decided on the latter.

"So," continued Bridget, "I was leading the press people on, and my own teammates were following me at a distance, two on foot, and two on the rooftops. I think one of the reporters actually started to suspect I was making stuff up, because there was physically no way you could have told me all that since the bus crash. So by this time I had turned into a narrow alley. The media were still with me. I'm not sure exactly what point I got to in the story when BOOM! The second explosion went off.

"The press was distracted for a second. So was I of course, but not as long. Now comes the part I'm ashamed of. At that instant, the ambush was sprung. We actually attacked the press! Although it was exquisitely done and no one was hurt, I feel terrible about it…anyway, the alley was instantly filled with smoke. No one could see. My teammates ran right up to the cameramen through the smoke and degaussed their tapes with electromagnets. At the same time, we deployed a heavy chain-link reinforced tarp across the alleyway, so they couldn't get back to the street except by going out the other side. We threw some more smoke and disappeared. Just before I fled I left a bouquet of roses for the press party, with a note expressing my sorrow and hoping that they wouldn't bear me any hard feelings."

"Hold up a second," said Helga, who, though still livid, was no longer trembling, "you did _what_ to their tapes?"

"We degaussed—I mean, we erased them. Did you know that if you rub a strong magnet next to a tape, you can completely erase its contents?"

Helga didn't know that. (She was, after all, only in the fourth grade.)

"You might even be able to do it at home, if you have one of those rare-earth magnets. Anyway, Helga, as part of our spy-equipment inventory we make a hand-held, pistol-like electromagnet with a steel core. You pull the trigger, and some big capacitors dump enough current to make a _huge_ magnetic field for a few seconds. This thing can degauss a tape even without taking it out of the camera; we've tested it. And we know how to use them, too!"

"So…what you're saying is, you erased ALL the tapes?"

"Yes, Helga, I'm quite sure of it. Anyway, if any part of my 'interview' actually survived, I'm sure the whole world would have heard of it by now. That said, I _still_ thought it was a good idea to disguise myself for a while."

"Bridget," asked Arnold, "even if all the tapes were lost, why didn't they complain about it and try to track you down?"

"Basically, Arnold, I think it's too embarrassing for them to tell anybody, and also…not criminal enough. First of all, we didn't really do anything violent to them, only slightly damaged their property. And I think the cameras would be OK, which means we _really_ only erased some tapes. So I think they don't have much of a criminal complaint to go on. Secondly, it's their own fault because, honestly, they were only following me because I was hot. Thirdly, they have absolutely no video evidence at all. And their reputation for resourcefulness would suffer if they told anyone what happened…and, maybe the flowers helped."

"Wow," said Arnold, taking it all in. Bridget was right about one thing: Arnold thought his Grandpa was one lucky son of a gun. Helga glared. But she shared Arnold's respect. Actually, Helga had never really considered a career in science before, but some of this stuff was kind of cool.

* * *

><p>Bridget adjusted the course of the boat a little, re-aligning on the arched bridge. They sat there for a bit, thinking their thoughts.<p>

"I don't mean to be pushy, guys," said Bridget, "but I'd really like to know how you guys ended up jumping the overpass. Who was driving that thing, anyway?"

Helga and Arnold had each told this story once at home. They started to speak at the same time; then they stopped, each one preferring to let the other tell.

"Do you want to tell it?" asked Arnold.

"Not really. But if you'd rather have me tell it, I could…"

"No, I guess I'll do it…"

"You don't have to, Arnold."

"OK, we'll both tell it. I guess I'll start." Arnold began at the time when he and Helga had gotten to the bottom of the building with the tape, and found Gerald in the bus. But Bridget, having noticed the tenderness between them, interrupted.

"I'm sorry guys, but, if you don't mind, I'd like to go back even further. Helga," she asked, "you know I equipped Arnold and Gerald with their spy stuff. You, on the other hand, I never gave anything to, and yet Arnold tells me that without your help, including some serious hands-on stuff towards the end, they would have totally failed. Helga, I have to ask—though you don't have to answer if you don't want to—how did you do it?"

Helga told the tale. She started three days before when, sitting in a chair at home, Nick Vermicelli's phone rang. The overheard conversation contained everything they needed: The fact that the document was hidden, and where, that Nick had the key, and, most important of all, that a "football-headed kid" was looking for it. So, Helga took her voice disguiser and called Arnold at the boarding house, and told him everything. That was the easy part.

The next day, Arnold and Gerald went to Bridget for the gear, and Helga planned her next moves. She found Nick's address easily enough, and made a map of the surroundings including all the pay phones and their phone numbers. Then she waited for Arnold and Gerald and watched them from a distance. Once they had the key, she called them again.

Helga took a cab to FTI, beating the boys by a bit. She waited outside and followed them in. After they distracted the guards with that car (nice work, Arnold), she ran up, opened the drawers of their desk, grabbed all the documents she could find, and ran down to the parking garage to study them. She quickly found a list of the public phones and their numbers, and a floor plan. It was in the parking garage that she saw Arnold again, and called him for the third time.

He went up to the surveillance room; she followed at a distance. The alarm went off. Arnold retreated into a maintenance area, which she had reached before him. He seemed about to go inside when Helga, needing to preserve him from certain capture, and having looked up that phone's number, called Arnold a fourth time.

"And here," said Helga, her tone of voice both regretful and rapturous, "is where my plans basically fell apart. Arnold must have suspected that I was close; I guess he saw me. While I was talking to him on the phone he walked right up to me and demanded to know who I was. I tried to hide, but my disguise fell apart, and there I stood." Helga paused.

"Bridget," she continued, "what comes next 'can never leave this boat.' Arnold asked _why_ I would have done so much for him. I gave some lame excuses, but then I broke down and told him…told him…"

Bridget was deeply moved. Arnold clasped Helga's hand; her voice hardened a bit.

"…well, that's none of your business. But after we were done talking, we rappelled down the side of the building with Arnold's grappling hook and rope—thanks Bridget—and boarded the bus. Arnold played it cool, and no one knows what happened up there on the tower."

Bridget, of course, was touched, and Arnold knew it was his turn to talk about the bus ride. When he got to the overpass jump, Bridget started sobbing. Arnold stopped.

"Oh," he said sadly, "everyone I tell this to ends up crying!"

Bridget, still sobbing, explained herself.

"Oh, it's so horrible. I could have stopped Nick from doing it, and I _didn't_, and you were racing towards _certain death, _and I just let it happen!"

Helga reached out and touched her hand.

"Bridget, what were you supposed to do? When they were setting the charges, you couldn't know that he would actually _do it_. No one could have known that. And I don't think you could have stopped Nick after the charges were set. If he was holding the detonator, he could just have pushed the button in the struggle. And he was surrounded by burly construction workers. I think you would have gotten yourselves hurt for nothing."

But Bridget (who had dried her tears), didn't buy it. She had learned to be strict with herself, if not with others, and her memory was pretty clear.

"You don't understand, Helga. Nick was afraid to blow those charges; I think Scheck had to order him to do it over the walkie-talkie. There's no way he would have blown it up on his own, just because we were attacking him. As for the workers, what were they fighting for, their right to blow up a bridge full of innocent people? They wouldn't have stopped us. No, Helga, we would have won if we tried. But… we didn't."

"Bridget," said Arnold sadly, "I'm sorry. We forgive you, anyway."

Of course nothing could make Bridget feel much better, but this was about as good as anyone could do.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] Unfortunately Bridget's tale is not <em>quite<em> consistent with the unedited film. Although the media was noticeably absent during Scheck's arrest (which absence IMO demands a more credible explanation than that they _all _followed Mayer Dixie out of the area), the fact is that just before Bob assaults Nick, Bridget can be briefly seen silently standing next to him, looking satisfied and doing nothing in particular. To make Bridget's story possible, _**we further edit to the movie by removing her from that camera shot.**_

You have my firm assurances that no further exculpatory edits will be made.


	10. You have the right to an attorney If

By now the boat was nearing the bridge. As Bridget turned to pass under one of the arches, Helga repeated her question.

"Bridget, where are we going?"

"Well, Helga, I found a lawyer for Arnold. Actually, when I found you, I was on my way to a preliminary meeting with the guy. But since you were right there, I figured I could pick you up and we'd all go and see him together. I'm supposed to meet him somewhere up this canal. I'm pretty late now, but I think he'll still be here."

As they passed under the bridge, Arnold and Helga looked around, and realized that they were passing through almost the exact spot where the _Mayflower _replica had foundered last Thanksgiving. The memory was chilling, and if the shipwreck had once served as a metaphor for their crappy holiday experience, now it seemed like a presentiment of impending catastrophe.

(Indeed the metaphor was pretty apt, for when the State gets an appetizing target in its sights—especially when the victim is as indisputably guilty as Grandpa was in this case—the assembly of incriminating facts proceeds strictly by the iron rules of logic and forensic science, as coldly mechanical as water rushing through the breached hull of a doomed ship. But I digress.)

Arnold shivered a bit and took Helga's hand, and they comforted each other as best they could-without hugging or anything, since Bridget was there. But despite the consciousness of danger, at least this time ourr heroes felt that their togetherness would make whatever happened…bearable.

After this had gone on long enough, Arnold spoke.

"Bridget, when I mentioned a lawyer to Grandpa, he said he couldn't afford it. I don't think I can afford to pay this guy, whoever he is."

"Well, that would normally be a problem, but the lawyer I've found is willing to work _pro bono_."

"What does that mean?" asked Arnold.

"It means he'll help you for free, out of the goodness of his heart. It's Latin."

"But who would do that for us?"

Bridget smiled.

"Well, Arnold," she said, "I think you'll be surprised when you see him."

But Helga was having none of it.

"Oh come on, Bridget. We're *nine*! Don't you think we're a _little _old for this peekaboo crap?"

"Oh fine," said Bridget, betraying some annoyance. "Arnold...its Monkeyman. I've engaged Monkeyman as your attorney."

Helga's jaw dropped.

"I didn't know he was a lawyer," said a very surprised little football-head. In fact, Monkeyman had told Arnold the story of his life, and there was nothing in it about law school. "I thought he went to being Monkeyman straight out of high school."

"Well, Arnold, basically that's true. In fact, he was already Monkeyman before he graduated. But Monkeyman's parents had money, and they wanted him to make something of himself. Although he was mainly interested in being Monkeyman, he allowed his parents to put him through college. He studied to become a lawyer—he felt it was the natural thing to do in order to help the weak and the downtrodden. Though being Monkeyman consumed most of his time, he managed to graduate with reasonable marks. He went to a local law school, all the while being Monkeyman after hours. He passed the bar, and spent some time as a public defender, and also doing _pro bono _work for various causes. But his first passion was always being Monkeyman; he shunned the social life. Finally his parents realized his lack of ambition and cut him off. Though he's now Monkeyman full time, he still takes jobs now and then as a public defender. And he keeps in touch with some of the more idealistic lawyers in that line of work, and some other places."

Arnold didn't know what to say, but Helga thought of something.

"How do _you_ know all this stuff?"

"Oh, Monkeyman and I go way back. When I was about your age, he saved me from being mugged. At that time, there was no 'legend of Monkeyman'—he was just getting started. When I was older I found him again, and we became friends. I tried to sell him some equipment later, but he prefers to keep it simple. Anyway, when I heard you needed a lawyer, he came to mind. I didn't realize he already knew you, but I guess that's just a lucky coincidence. Anyway, I'm supposed to meet him on one of these piers, but we didn't say which one. We'll have to look around."

Not long later, Bridget's phone rang.

"Hello?

"Yes, I'm here now. Sorry for the delay, I couldn't help it. Where are you?

"OK. I'll head there now. See you soon."

Bridget hung up. Of course, it was Monkeyman calling from a pay phone. Bridget set a course back towards the arched bridge.

"Guys," she said as if making small talk, "did you know something? That bridge is the very place where that _Mayflower_ replica the Mayor was so proud of crashed and sank…and on Thanksgiving Day, too! Talk about irony."

"Didn't she name that ship a city landmark," remembered Arnold, "a few days before it happened?"

"Why yes, I think she did," said Bridget, laughing at the Mayor's expense. But then she noticed something and quickly sobered up.

"But Arnold," she said, "That ship was a _city_ landmark. That's totally different!"

"Don't worry, Arnold," said Helga. "That ship steered itself straight into the barrier, you saw it. If they had corrected their course in time, they would have been fine. Maybe we can still steer the ship to safety."

Arnold was touched by Helga's optimism, but he knew that in order to "steer the ship" one must grasp the wheel, and what hope was there of that for a couple of nine year old kids? But of course it didn't do to say such things.

"Did you say you _saw_ the disaster?" asked Bridget, partly to distract him.

"We both saw it," said Arnold. "We were sitting on that pier."

As pitiable as this tale was, Bridget didn't have time to think or ask them about how it had happened, for as she looked at the pier which Arnold had just pointed at, she saw Monkeyman walking briskly onto it. He was dressed in nondescript civilian clothes, and carried a briefcase in his right hand. When he saw the boat, he waved enthusiastically. Bridget pulled up to a ladder, while Monkeyman put down his briefcase and started climbing down it. When his head was level with the top of the ladder, he picked up his briefcase and tossed it to Bridget; then, he climbed down the rest of the way and boarded the boat.

"Arnold!" he said, "So nice to see you again. Hi, Bridget. Ah, I don't think we've met. I'm Monkeyman."[1] He put out his hand. Helga took it, but she was not very impressed.

"I'm Helga. So you're really a lawyer, huh?"

"Nice to meet you. Well, I'm not a big shot or anything, but I did pass the bar, and I've got a bit of experience in criminal defense, although I hope you won't need to use me for _that._"

As the pleasantries were dying down Bridget revved up the motor, accelerated to a very respectable speed, and passed back under the arched bridge.

Helga then (who had to raise her voice to be heard above the roar of the engine) asked for the third time where they were going.

"Well, Helga, we need to talk business with Monkeyman. We couldn't do it at his lair—it's too open; too much noise, not enough privacy—so, we're going to mine. It's on Elk Island."

The two kids looked at each other. Had Bridget moved her hideout to Elk Island? Could her 'lair' be in the caves of Wheezin' Ed?

As the boat raced towards its destination, Arnold summarized his problems to Monkeyman. He didn't need much legal help himself, but he was scared that Grandpa would get in trouble for blowing up the building across the street, if not the overpass. Monkeyman seemed to understand, but he didn't say much. He preferred to interview the kids in a quiet atmosphere, where he could take notes.

* * *

><p>...<p>

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><p>[1] Monkeyman may seem a bit OOC throughout this work. Whether this is justified you alone can judge. (It may help to imagine that instead of "Monkeyman the superhero" we have instead his somewhat dissociated civilian alter-ego, his Clark Gable.)<p> 


	11. For hate or money

Before long Bridget's boat came near Elk Island, at a place Arnold and Helga hadn't been to before. Here there was no beach; instead a huge rock formation, visible even from the city, jutted straight out of the water.

"OK, guys," said Bridget. "This is it. I would greatly appreciate it if you never told anyone about this." Arnold and Helga exchanged quizzical looks.

"In this rock wall is a tunnel, a branch of the main cave system, which is submerged except at low tide. Our 'place' is through that tunnel. I timed the meeting with Monkeyman so we can get in and out without any problems, but even so, the tunnel is very low, and you'll basically have to lie down in the boat."

Bridget guided the boat towards the wall at a crawl, and as it got close her passengers perceived a very low opening therein.

"Here we go," she said as the boat neared the wall. "Get down, guys."

Our young heroes obeyed, lying on their backs, and soon saw the roof of the tunnel crawling by above them. Arnold was sure he could reach out and tough it with his arm, but he held back. (So did Helga.) Bridget, meanwhile, had squatted and bent forward sharply at the waist, keeping her right hand on the steering rod. After about 40 feet the ceiling pulled up sharply, and the kids found themselves in a reasonably large chamber. To their left the wall flattened somewhat, revealing a slanted floor which leveled out, rose, and ascended into a dry passage. In front of them the chamber, which was barely broad enough at its widest point for the length of the boat, narrowed and ended. The whole scene was dimly lit by a few incandescent bulbs strung along the upper part of the left wall, the chain of lights extending into the passage as far as they could see.

"Well," said Bridget, "here we are."

She opened a tackle box in the back of the boat and produced two of her grappling hook launchers—the same type she'd used on the crashed bus the previous morning. She immediately fired one of them, which connected with a hook on the wall. Then she clamped the launcher to the left side of the boat, and made it pull the wire tight, so that the aft part of the boat was about flush with the shore on its left side. After warning the others, she advanced to the front of the boat and repeated the process, thus mooring the boat at two points. Then she disembarked, and the passengers followed.

Bridget led them up the passage and began talking.

"So, here's my understanding of the situation. Arnold's Grandma is on the run; his Grandpa Phil is exposed to charges of blowing up the second building. They want him for the overpass too, and although Nick blew it up, we have no proof unless the construction workers rat him out. I think the main goal is to keep Phil out of jail. Did I miss anything?"

"Actually," said Helga, "Big Bob was arrested this morning for assault. It's not that important," she added, thinking of her poor beloved football-head, "but I thought I'd mention it."

Again Arnold sympathetically took Helga's hand.

"Yes," said Monkeyman to Arnold, "I heard that. I think they'll to try to make him testify against your Grandpa."

"But…they can't, right?" he said. Helga gave his hand a long, supportive squeeze.

"Well, Arnold, actually," said Monkeyman, "those prosecutors have a lot of power. If they tried, they could probably send her Dad to prison for years. What they'll probably do is threaten him with aggravated assault charges unless he flips and rats Phil out, in which case…who knows? They might go as low as disorderly conduct."

Poor Arnold! Himself too honorable to fear that Bob would crack, he was only saddened to hear that the so-called justice system was practically indistinguishable from his experience of Principal Wartz's petty tyranny. But this sadness mingled with his pity for poor Helga, and it was while before he recognized it as an independent source of pain.

Meanwhile the group had arrived at a small collapsible table, dimly lit by the hanging bulbs, with some cheap folding chairs leaning against the cave wall. Just beyond this table the passage bent sharply to the left out of sight. The four sat down, and Monkeyman opened his briefcase and produced a pen and some papers.

Helga spoke first.

"This is bad, Arnold. I know my dad…and I think he actually likes your Grandpa now, but…seriously, I'm worried." Although Helga, of course, would make any sacrifice to keep Arnold's family from being dissolved, her dad was another story altogether. Helga couldn't live with herself if she allowed her dad to do this to Arnold...but what could she do?

And Arnold, too, had nothing to say. He didn't want to reassure Helga that her dad would hold out; it was too selfish. There was also no point in revealing what he'd learned last night: that Bob could give annihilating testimony against Phil if he chose. Arnold eventually settled on a question.

"Why do they want Grandpa so badly? I don't understand."

The dark, stuffy, consipritorial atmosphere of the cave, whatever else may be said about it, nicely matched the darkness within. Monkeyman began:

"Well, the main reason, really, is FTI. Although they made a show of being sorry, the truth is, you cost them a _huge_ amount of money, and they'd like to see you suffer."

"But, what does that have to do with anything? Why would that even matter?"

Poor Arnold! Monkeyman continued.

"Arnold, it's pretty complicated. But basically, here's how it works. You have to understand that FTI is a big corporation. Economically, it represents capital—a huge mass of self-replicating money. In order to make money, FTI needs to maintain a good public image. That explains why they were so quick to disavow Scheck's plan…But, being a big, active corporation, FTI sometimes gets into legal disputes. It needs many lawyers, and it pays its lawyers very well. That's well known, by the way. All the lawyers know it; the state prosecutors know it. Some of them, I'm sure, would like to work for FTI or a company like them. So, they decide to show the prospective employer that they're reliable, by destroying its enemies under cover of fighting crime. The fact that FTI can't touch you itself makes their services that much more valuable."

"But, that's horrible!" said Arnold. "How can people act like that?"

"Well, it's not that hard really. All you need is a certain…uh…lack of principle. Actually, the rules against corruption and conflicts of interest are really quite strict, and even the bad lawyers usually try to adhere to them...mostly. The truth is, something like this barely even registers as corruption. After all, that explosion really _was _dangerous, and it _does_ have to be investigated. Who will complain if the hero who convicts the culprit manages to get a lucrative job later on?"

"What can we do?" asked Arnold pathetically. "My Grandpa said if we told our story to the press, the sympathy might help him. But I'm not so sure."

"I'm sorry, Arnold, but I don't think so either. Basically, any sympathy you get from your story wouldn't transfer over to your Grandpa…and the fact is, you're only nine. If you went through any danger to get the tape (and I guess you _did_), your Grandpa would be blamed for it. 'It was terribly callous of him to let his grandson risk his life like that,' they would say. If the whole truth came out, they'd claim to be doing you a favor by removing you from the custody of a crazy, bomb-setting terrorist—Pardon the expression, I'm just telling you what they would say!

"Your objections would be useless; you would be overruled by experts who can always be summoned in such cases, who know much better than you do what's best for kids your age. No," he concluded, "I don't think a news story would help you very much…and the more your Grandpa knew about the risks you took to save the neighborhood, the worse it would be for him."

Then there was a long and, needless to say, gloomy silence. Finally, Monkeyman spoke again.

"Arnold, Helga, I know it sounds bad, but let's not lose hope. I guess you told Bridget your story already. Could you please tell me? Maybe hearing it will help me think of something."

"Look Monkeyman," said Helga impatiently, "I know you want to hear our story, but how about you tell us something? I mean, **how **are we going to get out of this? Do you have _any_ ideas?"

"Helga, I don't really know what to say. Basically, I think the main problem is FTI. I think we either have to destroy FTI completely, by exposing some huge shocking malfeasance, or, I don't know, convince them to call off the police dogs themselves. Anyway," he finished distastefully, "with FTI out of the picture, the zeal of the prosecutors to find uncover 'truth' will evaporate pretty quick.

"So…Helga, Arnold, I guess I'd like you to start from the time you organized the 'blockapalooza' party. You got a permit for it, but the police dispersed it anyway."

Then the long story began. The kids got a permit, but the cops attacked regardless. They didn't know what happened. Monkeyman and Bridget thought that FTI had organized (somehow) the loss of the permit; Bridget promised to look into it, and Monkeyman took notes on his pad.

When they came to Nick Vermicelli, Monkeyman thought it a bit irregular that Scheck would give such a person the key to the safe deposit box where the document was stored. Nick was probably no employee of FTI, and that key was a very important object; Monkeyman took note of the fact, and the story proceeded.

They came to the encounter in Scheck's office. Monkeyman was intrigued by Arnold's description of what Scheck said to them before burning the document.

"Arnold, were there any other witnesses present besides you, Scheck and Gerald?"

"Actually, yes, there were two security guards. Gerald and I fought them on the way out."

"Good, very good." Monkeyman scribbled furiously on his pad. "Please continue."

Then they came to the bus chase. Helga recalled a helicopter with FTI markings hovering near the bridge as the bus approached it. Monkeyman was busy taking notes. As they described the bus jump, Bridget jumped in.

"I would like to say, for the record, that I saw Nick Vermicelli blow up the overpass with a remote-control detonator, with my own eyes. Just before he did it, he was using a Walkie-Talkie. He was surrounded by construction workers who saw it up close."

Monkeyman, who didn't seem terribly shocked by this, continued scribbling at his paper. After the playing of the tape was described, he stopped writing.

"Around this time," he said, "I arrived myself. I saw Scheck try to run over you and Gerald; You shouldn't have taunted him! Guys...this has been very edifying. Arnold, I think I see a way out of our problems."

Arnold and Helga stared hopefully at him; so did Bridget (who, by the way, had long since removed her fake beard and put it in a pocket of her raincoat).

"You know that FTI is trying to distance itself from Scheck's plan. Of course, everyone senses that they're lying. But what if it was true?" Monkeyman was becoming a bit excited.

"Think of what you told me. First, Scheck acquires the document, and locks it in a safe deposit box in his private back-office. Who does he give the key to? Not to FTI's head of security, not to some other trustworthy executive of FTI, but to Nick Vermicelli, his personal chum, whose official status with FTI is dubious at best. That suggests that Scheck was trying to conceal the document not only from the public, but from FTI itself.

"The next thing, which is even bigger, is what Scheck told you in that secret room. Before he burned the document he ranted that his ancestor, that polyglot European aristocrat so-and-so von Scheck, lost control of the neighborhood during the Tomato Incident. Scheck's entire demeanor makes plain that he regarded the destruction of your neighborhood as a sweet example of _personal revenge_. Guys, that is HUGE!

"You see, as CEO Scheck is legally bound to serve the fiduciary interests of his corporate employer, FTI. But here we see that he was abusing the corporate machinery in order pursue a _personal_ _vendetta_ against your neighborhood, which he wanted to destroy for reasons which had nothing to do with FTI's corporate interests, and which he seems to have carefully concealed from them. Guys, this means he _defrauded_ FTI! He cheated them out of his 'honest services,' and they can sue him for millions. The important thing, though, is that they can claim that they really were innocent, that it really was Scheck's idea from the beginning, and that they're a victim of Scheck's dishonesty, even as you were. If we gave, or I guess I should say _sold_, FTI this information, I'm sure we could get them to let your Grandpa off the hook as part of the deal.

"Now that we know what to do, we have to move fast. I want to contact FTI's people _today_ to get this worked out. Above all, we have to act before FTI's internal investigation uncovers this stuff on its own…unfortunately, if we told our story to the press _first_, FTI would take it as a hostile act. By the way guys, we need to get Gerald in on this; he shouldn't talk either until the deal with FTI is done."

But Arnold's heart was troubled. The truth was that this whole scheme left a bad taste in his mouth.

"But Monkeyman," he began, "even if this whole thing works, and my Grandpa is safe, what about Helga's dad? If they don't want Grandpa anymore, what will happen to him?"

"This is a bit difficult," said Monkeyman after a pause. "Her dad assaulted Nick Vermicelli. How can we get him off? Well, one mitigating circumstance, although Bob may not have known it, is that Nick actually blew up the overpass, almost murdering his daughter. That's one thing. But Nick wouldn't admit that, since the crime is so serious. But I think if we play our cards right with FTI, they can have Nick confess to blowing up the overpass on Scheck's orders. FTI's new-found hate for Scheck might be strong enough to make a deal like this work, especially if they threaten Nick with the testimony of the construction workers. Basically, I think Bob is reasonably safe if we can get FTI to turn Nick against Scheck about the overpass explosion."

But Arnold was not still not satisfied. Indeed, he was beginning to feel bad for Scheck, who as it now seemed was going to be mercilessly thrown to the wolves so that some ruthless corporation—which two days before would gladly have destroyed everything he held dear—could cover its ass. To do this seemed counter to all Arnold's instincts of honor and fairness, and the fact that they would apparently be benefiting from the corruption of the legal system didn't help either.

"But," he said slowly, "I feel a bit weird about helping FTI like this. I mean, they _did_ try to destroy my neighborhood, and they would have in a heartbeat if that document wasn't there. It's just…" he sighed, "I don't know, I'd just rather not help them pretend to be the good guys. Isn't there some other way we could do it?"

We may believe that the audience was touched, if not moved, by this sentiment. Surely they all hated the idea of helping FTI paint itslef in bright colors.

"Basically, Arnold," said Monkeyman regretfully, "there isn't. But, I know how you feel. I guess, if I tell FTI about this, they'll try to get you to say publicly that basically you think they're OK. Given your popularity, it would be very valuable to them. But we don't have to, and we _won't_ agree to anything like that. I'm going to drive a hard bargain! But the fact is, Arnold, your cooperation with their investigation can't be helped. It's the only way to turn aside their wrath. Arnold, Helga, you'll testify to their internal investigation, you'll truthfully answer a series of factual questions about Scheck and Nick—and I'll be there and stop them if they ask anything outside the agreed-upon subject of the interview—but _that is all._

"I guess you feel bad," he continued, "even about telling them the truth, because it'll help them cover their asses, and they absolutley don't deserve it. I feel that too. But what can we do? We can't destroy them; we have to turn aside their hate. This is the only way to do it. I know it feels dirty, but it can't be helped. Arnold, I like you, your idealistic spirit is really wonderful, and I hate to destroy your optimism like this. But the fact is, the world is ruled by FTI and by people like them. If we _only_ tell them the truth, if we _refuse_ to surrender our honesty by licking the hand which nearly throttled us, and which is probably now strangling others while we aren't looking, we will have made a better deal than most of the poor mass of humanity is able to make these days."

Monkeyman thought about whether to stop himself before subjecting these poor nine-year-olds to what might be considered political indoctrination…and decided in the affirmative; the offending paragraph was deleted.[1]

The speech ended. The audience was perturbed, and Arnold most of all. Although he had always tried to be honest, it was only because he knew it was generally the right thing to do, and not because of any obligation not to throw away a thing of value. But he would have plenty of time to think later. Meanwhile Helga was holding his hand firmly under the table, and Bridget was feeling pret-ty awkward (though not nearly as awkward as she would have felt, had Monkeyman's decision gone the other way).

"So," she said rather nervously, "I guess we should get going then?"

"Oh, right, yes, of course," said Monkeyman, who began to put away his papers. "I think we've got it pretty much figured out. Once we're back I'll contact FTI and arrange a meeting. We'll figure out the parameters of the testimony, and what they'll do in return, and then we'll have a meeting with the kids-Gerald too-to deliver the testimony. After that, your grandpa should be fine, and they should let Big Bob out soon too. Let's get going."

"We need to get Gerald informed. I guess I'll call him when I get back home?" asked Arnold.

"No," said Bridget. "Your phone's tapped, remember? Instead, _I'll _call him and invite him to eat dinner with me tonight. We'll discuss the whole thing at Chez Pierre or some such place. Don't worry," added Bridget sweetly, "I won't lead him on...but I'm sure it will be fun for both of us."

And with that our heroes got quickly up from the table and went back down the passage, without bothering to fold the chairs back up.

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><p>...<p>

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><p>[1] Yes, really.<p> 


	12. A Bridget too far

They reached the boat, and Bridget untied it.

"Arnold," she said, "could you go in the boat, all the way to the back, and stand there while I turn it around? Just don't let the motor scrape against the back wall."

This he did, while Bridget took off her raincoat and set it on the floor. She was now seen to be wearing her trademark blue jumpsuit, utility belt included.

Taking a grappling hook launcher in her hand, she attached it firmly to the back of her belt, then pulled out the wire and attached the hook to the forward of the two mooring hooks. She straightened her back and gradually leaned forward, so that her weight was jointly supported by her feet and the taut cable pulling diagonally up from her waist. As she bent low over the water, the increasing tension in the cable tended to pull the front of her jumpsuit tight, somewhat accentuating her...um…her chest area.[1] When her rigid body was inclined about 55 degrees from the vertical, she lowered her arms and gripped the boat, one hand on either side of the prow, and with gentle yet firm and steady force began to rotate it counterclockwise underneath her.

"Arnold," she asked, "how's the motor? Are we clear?"

Instantly recalled to a sense of his duties, Arnold turned to the back of the boat and leaned out over the motor. As the wall approached he pushed against it with his hands, keeping the motor from scraping, until the wall receded once more.

Bridget then completed the motion without further incident.

"Everyone," she said, "I think you'd better get in the boat now, while I'm still holding it. If I let go, it might run away from you."

Monkeyman and Helga climbed into it as carefully as they could. Then Bridget quickly pulled herself upright, unhooked the cable, picked up her yellow raincoat, and gingerly leapt into the boat. Monkeyman moved to the front, so that from front to back the order was himself, Helga, Arnold, with Bridget at the rudder.

She started the motor, and the boat crept forward towards the hole. The passengers got down once more, but just before they reached it Monkeyman, looking ahead, gave a loud and somewhat dissatisfied "uhhhhhh..."

Bridget looked and saw it too...and swore violently…and kept swearing…and poured forth a raging torrent of profane invective, the likes of which had not been heard in those caves since the days of Wheezin' Ed. And if the mute walls could speak, they might well testify that the gangster's records were broken, and that nothing comparable had yet reverberated from them in any European language. And surely if, like the elven gates of Moria, the waterlogged passage had been capable of responding to human speech it would have yielded to the onslaught, and they would have sailed through it even then.

But it was not so.

Monkeyman's furious one-handed gesticulations (his other hand being occupied in keeping the boat from hitting the wall) finally succeeded in bringing Bridget's rant to an end, whereupon she looked horror-struck at the kids, and blushed as red as a beet.

"Bridget," asked Helga with devilish sweetness, "what does fu—"

"Nevermind! It's a very bad word, and I shouldn't have said it. Please just...forget it, guys. I just lost it for a minute there. You see, the water's too high. We can't get out!"

She cut the motor. Then the boat slipped back from the wall (as Monkeyman pushed it away), and the kids saw that there were indeed trapped. The tunnel roof was barely a foot above the water!

"Oh, this is all my fault," wailed Bridget. "I said it was passable only at low tide, and I timed the meeting so we could get in and out just fine, but we were _late_! First I was late through picking up Arnold and Helga and talking to them so long, then with them here the meeting took longer than I expected, and I didn't check the time, and now it's too late! The water's too high, and it's rising, and we can't get through this f—, through this damned hole!"

"But Bridget," said Arnold, "didn't you say this cave is connected to the main system? We could get out that way."

"Yeah, but it would take way too long. We can't haul the boat up—the turns are too narrow—so the only thing we could do is call the _real_ Earl, and although I have his number it might be hours before he gets our message. But…it's still a lot faster than waiting for the tide to come back down."

"I don't want to wait that long," said Monkeyman. "I need to contact FTI's people _today,_ before they leave work. Isn't there anything faster we can do?"

"Bridget," said Helga unexpectedly, "if you look at it, the water level isn't that high. If we could weigh the boat down somehow, maybe put some water in it, I think we could get through."

(The seed of this interesting idea may have been sown when Helga, having gotten home one night from Wrestlemania, had occasion to wonder what use there could be for a cork-plugged hole in the bottom of a boat.)

"Helga," she replied, "that just might work. We don't have any good weights lying around, but we can use the water. But let's figure this out quick; the tide's rising all the time!"

This need for haste—which was in no way, shape, or form a mere pretext to get Bridget soaking wet in a possibly clingy jumpsuit[2]—impelled her to remove her coat, shoot a hook back to the wall, and leap into the water, so that autho-retracting cable pulled her ashore in a couple of seconds. After unhooking herself she walked a few paces along the shore to a medium-sized metal cabinet, which she opened and took out a tape measure.

"Monkeyman, catch!" He caught it.

"Arnold, have you ever driven a boat before?"

"Not a motorboat."

"Well, it's not that hard. Could you turn on the engine—yank the cord—and creep up to the mouth of the hole. Helga, take the tape measure from Monkeyman and measure the distance from the rim of the boat down to the water. I want the shortest distance, it should be near the middle. When you're done, shout it to me. Monkeyman, keep the boat from hitting the lip of the cave with your arms. When Helga's done with the tape measure, she'll give it to you. Measure the distance from the roof of the hole to the water. Arnold, when he's done, cut the motor. Then, Monkeyman, hand Arnold the tape measure and have him measure the distance from the water to the top of the motor—I think that's the tallest part of the boat. Each of you, tell me the numbers you get when you're done."

Although the plan was complicated, Arnold and Helga were eager to prove their worth. Arnold started the motor on the first try, while Helga measured the distance to the water.

"Nine inches!"

The boat crept up to the hole, and Monkeyman took the tape measure. He couldn't hold the boat well and draw the tape measure at the same time.

"Helga, could you pull out about two feet and lock it? Push the black knob down."

She did and handed it back.

"Thirteen inches!"

Arnold cut the motor, took the tape measure, and found

"Eighteen inches!"

Bridget, meanwhile, had removed a submersible electric pump from the cabinet, and was now fitting it with a plastic hose while she did the math in her head.

"Great work, guys. So we have to lower the boat by five inches, and we can afford to put…basically eight inches of water into it. That means we can do it! I'll toss you the grappling hook and pull you into shore. I've got a pump here, and I can start filling the boat as soon as we're ready."

"Bridget," asked Arnold, "do you have a plan to get all this water _out_ of the boat when we're done?"

"Oh yes, indeed I do. You see that little white tube that runs from the engine about halfway down the floor of the boat? There's a switch on the side of the motor that will use to suck the water out through that tube and pump it out over the side. It might take a while, but we'll get the water out that way."

"Bridget," said Monkeyman, "I don't mean to be a wet blanket here, but I've got some valuable notes in this briefcase, and I don't think it's waterproof. Have you got some plastic sheeting or something?"

Helga and Arnold now realized that they were going to be completely soaked. Bridget knew it too, but anyway the water wasn't too cold this time of year. Still, she quietly resolved to call someone once they were out and arrange to meet them on shore with some towels. In the meantime, she found a box of gallon-sized Ziploc bags in the cabinet.

"Guys, I've got some bags for your shoes and socks. But first let me pull the boat in. Watch out for the hook!"

She tossed the grappling hook high over their heads, so that it struck the wall behind the boat; the wire draped over it between Arnold and Helga.

"OK, guys, just grab the rope and hold it while I pull."

Bridget pulled the boat up to shore as quickly as was safe. As it reached the landing she tossed them the box of bags; the passengers started taking off their socks and shoes and zipping them up. Monkeyman opened up his briefcase, put some of his notes into one of the bags, and replaced the bag inside the case. Bridget then tossed him a packaged poncho, which he wrapped around it as best he could.

Arnold seemed to be ready before the others so Bridget, who had already placed the pump underwater, handed him the free end of the hose and climbed into the boat.

"OK guys, are you all ready?"

They were as ready as they would ever be. While Arnold held the hose Bridget lay down in the boat, reached over the edge into the water, felt the pump switch and turned it on. A stream spurted from the hose, which she then took and pointed into the middle of the boat.

"Well, this is it, guys. Who's got the tape measure?" Arnold had it.

* * *

><p>As the boat ever-so-slowly filled with water, the passengers were lying in it (without much room to spare between their legs) and thinking their own thoughts. Arnold's mind wandered, and as he saw the water pooling about his heels he recalled that time in the tunnel of love, when with Lila he began to notice that they were sinking. To think, yesterday he had been ready to blame <em>Helga <em>for that! But now he found that this suspicion clung to him with renewed force. Was it not her idea, after all, to flood the boat this time?

(And this was not far off the mark, for Helga must have remembered that she drilled her hole _above _the water line. Only the couple's weight, in fact, had pushed the boat low enough.)

Troubled, Arnold continued to think. Suppose she did sink that boat. Could that change his feelings towards her?[3] It was, he knew, a pretty terrible thing to do. Lila seemed to be floundering, at risk of drowning, and he had to dive in and rescue her. To be sure, if Helga did do it, she couldn't have known how bad it would be. She would have only thought to ruin their boat ride and get them wet. Was it merely some harmless fun? But no, thought Arnold, to sink a boat like that would have been some pretty serious vandalism, at least.

Could Arnold _really_ love someone who would do something so terrible for no good reason? He looked across at Helga who was staring into the water, soewhat expressionlessly, thinking her own thoughts. Maybe, thought Arnold...but something so messed up would be pretty hard to handle. But...Helga's changed! She's not the same person who might (and he emphasized _might,_ for it was wrong to condemn someone without proof) have drilled a hole in his boat long ago. Remember what she did for me this week? Remember how she helped me this summer? [the "Summer love" incident] Remember "Cecile," whom he loved, and who was Helga? No, thought our football-head, if poor Helga, whose miserable condition Arnold knew well enough, and was now beginning to share at least in part, had yielded to her dark passions long enough to drill that hole, could he hold that against joyously liberated, deeply loving Helga who was now with him? Indeed, his eyes began to dampen with his pity for the girl. But he controlled himself, since after all she probably didn't do it…probably…

Now the question became whether to _ask _Helga about the boat. Not now of course, but later...alone. Should he do it? He didn't want to pry into her business, but still, this directly involved Lila and him. Arnold didn't think he should just yet…but the idea that he should fear to ask Helga about something like that disturbed him. Was it really fear, or something else like gentlemanly discretion or courtesy that held him back? If it was fear, what did he fear? That Helga would get angry with him for asking? That she would show a lack of confidence in him, by falsely denying it? That he would hurt her with his suspicions, although she was innocent?

The dark philosophizing, however, was both unsatisfying and pointless. Rather than continue it, Arnold looked up at Helga, smiled, and playfully splashed her with the water which was now beginning to cover them.

"Cool it, football-head!" Helga splashed him back with interest. Soon they were having a merry splash-fight.

But Bridget was deeply disturbed to see that some of the water was escaping the boat, costing valuable time. Determined to rectify the situation, she took one of her gallon bags, and in one swift motion scooped it through the water outside the boat and dumped it...over Arnold's head. At this point the action became general; Monkeyman alone abstained.

The latter, actually, was not having a very good time. Besides having a briefcase to keep dry, he just wasn't a water person. Although he would happily endure things like this, and worse, for his friends, he found himself wondering if a lawyer had ever endured this _particular_ set of circumstances for a client…and a _pro bono _client at that. He kind of doubted it, but he just held the briefcase and tried not to be a wet blanket.

As they splashed each other, Bridget noticed that the boat was becoming full. She picked up the tape measure where Arnold left it, and measured the height of the boat again. Three inches...but she let it fill some more. The tide was, after all, going up the whole time, and it was better to fill the boat to uttermost limit of safety than to underfill it and have to find the pump again.

But the kids sensed that the moment was close, and stopped splashing. Bridget decided to lower the boat another inch and a half before they stopped.

* * *

><p>When the time came to switch off the pump Arnold and Helga lay flat in the boat, face up, their heads mostly submerged. Monkeyman also lay on his back, with his head just above water in the prow, and his arms holding the poncho-wrapped briefcase above his chest. As Arnold and Helga joined hands, Bridget reached once more into the water, found the pump switch (which was noticeably closer than before) and turned it off. Not wanting to litter, she threw the box of bags on shore, where she or someone she knew would pick them up later.<p>

Without raising her head, Bridget grabbed the ripcord and pulled it, steadying herself against the motor with her other hand. The boat rocked a little, but the motor was on; it started to creep forward. Leaning sideways to see, she gently guided it into the tunnel, which looked lower than ever. Indeed they made no mistake by filling the boat so full, for it almost seemed the motor would scrape the roof.

But there was no hitch. As Arnold and Helga watched the roof of the tunnel flow by, submerged as they were in the still water of the boat, they felt serene and at peace with the world. (I guess that's what being in a sensory deprivation tank feels like, although this must have been less boring.)

When our heroes emerged into the sunlight, they all breathed a deep sigh of relief except Bridget, who reserved hers for a bit later, when (after flipping the switch and seeing water spurt forth from the exhaust tube) it hit her that the water-pumping functionality actually worked.

"Now," she said, "it's more important than ever that you _not rock the boat_. It'll take a long time to get this water out, and with the waves lapping at our sides we shouldn't let any more in if we can help it."

Thankfully it was a calm day, and the waves were not too high. Still, the kids didn't feel entitled to sit up, and contented themselves with raising their heads above the now frightfully low edge of the boat. Bridget steered for the inlet where they found Monkeyman, and increased the speed as much as she dared, which was very little.

* * *

><p>As the warm sun shone down on Arnold his spirits lifted, and he began to think of who else he might save.<p>

"Monkeyman," he said, "uh, before we go, I was wondering, well, about my Grandma. I don't suppose there's much chance of getting her off too, but...what do you think?"

Monkeyman (who had kept his position exactly as in the tunnel) looked sympathetically at the boy.

"Arnold, your Grandma's a hard case. The stuff she did was so blatant, I don't think any level of behind-the-scenes manipulation can help. But…let's think. Who are her victims? She destroyed bulldozers, belonging to FTI. She endangered or assaulted their drivers, which is more serious. I assume she operated the equipment without a license. She apparently escaped from prison. What can we do?

"FTI might forgive the bulldozers. The injured workers might forgive her too, since they know they were on the wrong side. But by escaping from jail, your grandma directly embarrassed the state, and FTI's influence only extends so far. But..._if_ she's forgiven for the other stuff, _if _by saving your Grandpa from 'suspicion' we end the close surveillance of your house—and I wouldn't count that chicken either until it's hatched—, _if _your story becomes well known enough for public opinion to sympathize with you and your family, so that the cops would feel bad about nabbing your Grandma anyway…

"_If _all these things happen, _and_ if your grandma returns home secretly by night and keeps a low profile, and doesn't embarrass the police by being recognized around your neighborhood, I think they'd leave her alone. But Arnold, that's a lot of ifs. I hope she has relatives she can stay with in the meantime; it would be safer."

Arnold, who hadn't really expected anything better, sadly wondered where his Grandma could be, while Helga held his hand firmly under the water.

"Guys," said Bridget after putting her fake beard back on, "another thing I guess we should think about is how to tell the press. I'd personally appreciate it if you could find some way to, uh, _downplay _my participation in this whole thing. I think I've had enough media exposure as it is."

That makes two of us, thought Helga.

"I can't really tell you guys what to say, of course," said Monkeyman, "but I should add that, now that we know how we're going to try to handle FTI, you guys really _should _get ready to talk to the press. After all, I'll have to hold it against them as an alternative in case the negotiations fail, and anyway if FTI doesn't bite it's probably the best Plan B we can get. But I need to tell you: No matter what, don't get caught in a lie. You'll need to tell FTI the truth when you meet them, and although I'll try to limit their questions to a narrow range, so you should have some freedom with the press afterwards, do _not _get caught in any contradictions. If you get caught lying about anything, the value of your testimony will go way down."

Helga gulped. She didn't want to ruin the deal, but…how much did people know, anyway?

"In thinking about what you want to say," he added, "remember what I need from you. Helga, _you _knew that Scheck gave his safe-key to Nick Vermicelli, the personal accomplice, and you told the boys about it. Arnold, you and Gerald took the key from Nick. And later, you heard Scheck's speech about how his ancestor lost control of the neighborhood in the Tomato Incident. _These_ are the things we need to tell FTI, and these are the things your story has to be consistent with, no matter what."

Helga and Bridget each thought a bit.

Helga remembered that until she got out of the wrecked bus, no one had the slightest suspicion that she was even involved. Maybe, by some weird coincidence, she was already on the bus when it picked Arnold and Gerald up? But no, she thought, Murray saw her get on the bus with Arnold. Maybe she was just walking on the sidewalk right then? (After all, it's a free country.) Oh crap… **Scheck** saw her rappelling down the side of the building, _with Arnold_. And since Scheck was the last person in the world to do them any favors, it meant her presence, with Arnold, on the observation deck was a **fact**. She gulped a bit.

Bridget, meanwhile, thought about what Arnold knew about her. Basically nothing, except her _nom de guerre_. She gave them their equipment, but that's all, and moreover at a location which couldn't possibly compromise her. Of course they knew about the water-passageway, but that was unlikely to be dangerous. Her only problem would be if someone recognized her from the ziplining footage. This indeed seemed problematic, but still she was confident that no one would recognize her. (For security reasons, the basis of Bridget's confidence cannot be published.)

Arnold, whose burden in that department was rather light, thought of two things. First, in stealing the key from Nick Vermicelli, he and Gerald had clearly broken the law. This was a problem, and it might be a bit dangerous. But since he had to tell it, there was no use worrying about it. Another problem was Murray. Although he was sure that they were blameless in the overpass jump, he feared to get Murray in trouble for jumping the drawbridge. Indeed, he now remembered, Murray had taken all his risks for the sake of romantic love, which endeared him very much to Arnold...

"Monkeyman," he asked, "what about Murray, the bus driver? I'd really like to keep him out of jail too."

"Hmmm…" Monkeyman took a moment to think.

"Basically, Arnold, I think he can't do any better than the truth. Murray was the only adult on that bus. If he didn't get knocked out at the drawbridge, his control of the bus would have involved full responsibility for everything that happened afterwards, which is a lot! If he was knocked out before the drawbridge, how would it have happened? Did _you _assault a bus driver, to take it over and drive it yourself? Then you'd save Murray only to hurt yourselves much, much worse. No, Arnold, the only thing I would add to the truth, is that when you were looking at that drawbridge jump you were with him, you thought it was makeable…indeed, you thought it was an entirely reasonable thing to do under the circumstances. That Murray should be knocked out when the bus came back down was totally unexpected. In fact, it was more due to the crappy condition of the bus, which the city should have maintained better, than the jump _per se_. Of course that's just an opinion, but you're not required to withhold your opinions, and if they _do_ investigate the actual condition of the busses in this city," he added with a slight tone of complaint, "it should go in your favor. I think if we just stick to the truth and support Murray about his jump, he'll understand; I'm sure he doesn't want to get you in trouble either."

"Actually, guys," said Monkeyman after a pause, "I think there's a good chance the city authorities will try to scrap that bus quickly, to conceal its crappy condition, which might embarass them politically. Bridget, if it's at all possible, I think you should find that bus, track it down, photograph the interior with all the thoroughness of a forensic investigation, and do it _as soon as possible_, before they destroy the evidence. I think the only, and certainly the best way we can help Murray is to make a detailed photographic record of that bus. Although it was crashed pretty bad its old, run-down crappiness should still be distinguishable from the later damage…I guess you should bring Arnold and Helga with you to take the pictures, since you want to keep a low profile."

"That's a very good idea," said Bridget. Sitting up, she removed her phone from a plastic bag and called someone.

"Natasha? Bridget. I need you to find out what happened to the bus that brought the kids to the crime scene. Basically I need to know where it is, any special security arrangements, and if you can do it quickly, find out whether it's scheduled to be destroyed soon. Yes, I might have to pay it a visit. We can talk about that later. Thanks, Natasha! Bye."

As soon as Bridget hung up she realized she'd forgot to ask for towels. But now it was too late, and anyway her passengers seemed not obviously uncomfortable.

* * *

><p>Soon the boat the passed once more under the arched bridge, and approached the pier where Monkeyman had been picked up. Arnold searched his mind for things to ask him before he left, but couldn't think of anything except his sorrow at being unable to repay him adequately. Perhaps he could find Monkeyman a girlfriend? That would be nice, he thought, but it seemed like more of a long-term project, although he would keep his eyes open. Arnold sighed.<p>

As the boat reached the ladder to the pier it must have seemed to be still full of water, although about half had already been pumped out. Monkeyman handed Helga his briefcase, climbed the ladder, lay down on the pier, and reached straight down to grab his briefcase. Having taken it he got up, but before waving goodbye stopped for a moment, as if deeply puzzled.

"Arnold," he said after thinking for a bit, "before I go…I just realized I don't actually know your last name."

"Oh sorry, it's—"

"Oh, come on Monkeyman," interrupted Helga, "you don't really need to know that, do you? I mean, they all know him as the football-headed kid. Can't you just introduce him as 'Arnold, the football-head,' or something like that?"

"Well, I guess I _could_, but really, Helga, I'm supposed to be his lawyer, and I'm going to meet them before you show up. I mean, what if it comes up in conversation? What if I have to fill out some paperwork for him, and it turns out I don't know my own client's last name? I mean, that would be _hugely _embarrassing; it might even sink the whole thing. Arnold?"

Arnold, who had no idea what the fuss was about, replied "It's—"

But just as he said it a seagull, carrying a pink urchin in its talons, flew in front of the camera coming almost head on; its long, loud cry drowned out the sound. Bridget (who was not particularly invested in this conversation) followed it with her eyes.

But Monkeyman just stood there and half-frowned.

"Sorry Arnold—could you spell that for me, please?"

"Sure, that's"**—**_CCHRRSSH_

…and as this cold front sweeps down from Canada we should expect to see highs in the low seventies in the Hillwood area, moving down to the upper sixties as we go further inland, with a slight chance of showers all around…

_**Shit! I've lost the feed!**_

In a dark room somewhere the author, his face illuminated by a computer screen, thus screamed into a headset.

_**Will someone get this fucking weatherman off my screen!?**_

On the floor around his feet, gnomes scampered back and forth, dragging long black cables behind them; others were plugging some cables into different sockets and unplugging others. One of the runners stopped to watch the weather...

To make a long story short: After several more profane and completely undignified utterances the author opened the Task Manager (he was using Windows), clicked the "End Task" button several times in quick succession, swore again at the screen, and pulled his hair with both hands.

But just then the picture came back. After taking a moment to recover from one of those bizarre and infuriating equipment malfunctions which modern technology has introduced into the art of fiction writing, he was able to report that Monkeyman walked down the pier, his briefcase in his right hand, his pant legs dripping slowly onto the boards, leaving a dwindling trail of drop marks, as the other three watched him from the boat.

Fortunately for Monkeyman, the cold front hadn't hit Hillwood yet, so the temperature was still a quite comfortable eighty—_**dammit!**_[4]

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] I would like to sincerely apologize for this comment especially to my female readers, if any remain. Of course it is wrong to objectify women, and that the movie may have done it first is no excuse. Please forgive me.<p>

[2] See note 1.

[3] When I first wrote these lines I had forgotten that in "Big Sis" Arnold actually _did _see Helga viciously sabotaging Olga and Lila's carriage. (Perhaps he forgot too?)

[4] The gnomes responsible for this appaling travesty have since been identified and sacked. (cf the persons responsible for the opening credits of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_)


	13. Deja vu all over again

As she watched Monkeyman depart, Bridget decided it was time to make another call.

"I guess I should call Gerald, and ask him to dinner. Any reason you know of why I shouldn't do it now?"

(There was none.)

"Hi, is Gerald there? It's a friend of his."

"Gerald? It's Bridget. A lot of things have happened, and we need to talk. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? My treat. Wonderful. Shall we meet at Chez Paris, at seven? Sounds good. And Gerald, please don't talk to the press at all-about anything-until we've had time to talk. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone. I'll tell you everything over dinner. That's good to know. Thanks, Gerald. See you soon!"

She hung up.

"So," she said to the kids, "I guess that's settled."

Then Bridget restarted the motor and pulled away from the pier, making again for the arched bridge.

"I guess we should arrange to visit that bus, and then I can drop you off again. I take it you guys are still in?"

Arnold nodded, and Helga thought about it. Although the plan seemed somewhat sketchy, she knew it would be much less difficult than what she'd already done against FTI, so it seemed silly to object.

"Me too," she said.

"Great," said Bridget. "My feeling is that you two are pretty much capable of doing everything yourselves. I'll bring the cameras, and follow you as a consultant, but I think that's all you need. Anyway, it would be best if you could say that you took the pictures yourselves. I'm sure, though, that we should do it this afternoon, or tonight."

Arnold and Helga looked at each other nervously.

"Guys, if life has taught me anything, it's that you have to strike when the iron is hot. Who knows what will happen to that bus soon? As far as I'm concerned, the decision depends on whether it's better to do it in the daylight, or in the dark. Of course the photography will be better in the light, but for stealth we should do it at night. But, depending if anyone's watching, it could be more dangerous at night since we'd have to use flash photography. I guess the decision will depend on _where the bus is_."

But this intelligence was lacking.

"Bridget," asked Helga after a pause, "it's not that I don't want to help Murray, but, well, _what's the plan_, exactly? What are we going to _do _with these pictures after we take them? Like, will we have to show them in court?"

Bridget thought for a bit, and then answered.

"Well, Helga, I think it has to do with public opinion. It's not so much the legal process that the photos would be used for—I don't think they would help Murray that much in court …I guess the point would be to let the authorities know that you're completely on his side, and you're prepared to embarrass them publicly rather than let them prosecute him. Hopefully, it won't get to the point that you'll have to actually show those photos in public."

"OK," said Helga. "But there's one other thing. Since the whole thing is potentially for public consumption, I think it's a good idea if it's _not_ Arnold and me taking them ourselves. I mean, people might think we're a couple or something!"

And if Arnold was shocked by this comment, it was only that he (who normally tried to watch out for things which might affect the people he loved) hadn't thought of it himself.

"She's right, Bridget," said Arnold. "Let's get Gerald involved. Then it will be the same three of us who were at FTI."

"Oh, I guess so," sighed Bridget "It's just…you know…I was hoping that it would be kind of, you know, a date or something, and I"—she smiled a bit-"I could be the chaperone. Oh, it would be so _cute_!"

Arnold was mortified, Helga furious.

"Just bring him, Bridget," said Arnold as he steadied Helga with his left hand. "That way, we can make it a double date. Now _that _would be cute!"

Bridget blushed, the question was settled, and Arnold inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. It was bad enough to know that his first real kiss with Helga was in a dumpster full of trash; at least now their first 'date' wouldn't be rummaging through a landfill together.

"Well," said Bridget, "since Gerald's coming, I think we can't do it this afternoon. It'll have to wait until after dinner. I propose we meet at some convenient place after dark—say, nine thirty or ten. I'll tell Gerald. The thing is, I don't feel comfortable calling Arnold's phone, so whatever we settle here should be final."

"But," she added not without annoyance, "where we should meet depends on where that…damn bus is, and Natasha hasn't called me back yet. I don't want to keep you guys any longer than necessary, but I'd rather not leave you without knowing where we're going to meet."

"That reminds me, where do you want me to drop you off?"

"Well," said Helga, "I guess you could just leave us where you found us. Arnold and I were going to throw rocks at one of the dumpsters."

"Ah," said Bridget, "I think I know that one. I could bring you closer to it if you want."

"No, Bridget," said Helga, remembering how she found Arnold and Gerald there the previous day, "It's better if we go there on foot. We can turn back more easily if anyone's there."

"Guys, if you're worried about being spotted, I could swing by the place first, while you hide in the the boat, and scout it out for you, _then _drop you off. I mean," she said, slapping her foot in the inch or so of water that was left in the boat, "it's almost _dry _now."

Now Arnold and Helga realized that they they were actually rather conspicuous. The weather was clear, and both of them (Helga with her pink bow and sideways pigtails, and Arnold with his football-shaped head) were easily recognizable at a distance. They got down in the boat, almost as if taking cover.

"Guys," said Bridget amused, "honestly, you can't go on like this forever. Sooner or later someone's bound to see you together. If you want my advice, just be completely public about it. Who cares if your classmates laugh at you a little? And really, if you act like you're ashamed, it'll just create a bigger scandal when you _are _found out."

Although Helga and Arnold too had both been hoping for, let's say, less radical advice from that master of spycraft and stealth, deep down they knew she was right. But…

"That sounds good in principle, Bridget, but, I think we just can't. Please," said Helga, "take us around the rock-throwing place and, if it's clear, drop us. If not, just…take us to some deserted beach."

"Whatever you say, Helga," replied Bridget.

* * *

><p>As the kids lowered themselves for Bridget's reconnaisance of the rock-throwing point, she addressed them one more:<p>

"Well, at this rate, it looks like we're going to part ways before I learn the location of the bus. Let's arrange the meeting-place now. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Well, we could meet near PS 118," said Arnold. "It's within walking distance."

"Yeah," said Helga, "I guess PS 118 sounds good."

They thought for a bit about the surroundings.

"Right near PS 118," said Arnold, "there's a vacant lot. It's basically empty except for some columns which hold up the highway overpass. I think that's a good meeting place."

"Ah," said Bridget, "that's good. I think I know the place. When should we meet? Nine-thirty? Ten?"

The balance of opinion was in favor of ten. (Bridget would no doubt have preferred to do it later, and her choice of ten was moved less by tactical considerations than by the need to make sure her companions could get a good night's sleep.)

"Alright, so it's settled then. We meet at ten, under the overpass at PS 118. I'd like you kids to show up a bit early and find each other, if you don't mind. That way, if I call Helga, I'll find all three of you."

Soon, Bridget was able to report that the rock-throwing place was unoccupied.

"Guys," she said as the boat pulled in to drop them off, "I remembered that we didn't actually figure out _how_ Monkeyman will contact you about the meeting. Helga, I guess I can just call you. Arnold, I don't feel comfortable letting my voice appear on your phone line. If I send you a pigeon, will you get it?"

Although he had been slacking lately on his pigeon correspondence, Arnold could check more often if he expected important news.

"Yes, I'll get it."

"Good. I figure, once Monkeyman tells me the time, I'll call Helga and send you a pigeon. Of course, Helga, you can call Arnold too, but please don't tell him the details over the phone. Just arrange to meet him somewhere."

"Don't worry about it, Bridget. I wasn't born yesterday!"

Bridget smiled at them as they got out of the boat.

"Alright, guys. Here, catch your shoes, then put them down and push me off."

She tossed them the sealed bags which contained their shoes and Helga's cellphone.

"OK, good bye guys! See you tonight!" She blew kisses at them, a rather amusing sight considering her disguise. As she turned the boat away from shore and sped off into the distance, Arnold and Helga stopped watching, waded ashore, and began to put on their shoes.

"That Bridget is really something," said Arnold.

"I don't know," said Helga, "she kind of reminds me of Olga. Cooler, of course, but still…too good. I wonder if she has any younger siblings."

"Ah, I wouldn't know what that's like," said Arnold. "It's just, you know, I never had any brothers or sisters…I guess Bridget is everything I imagined an older sister might be."

"Well, I understand, I guess, but you know what they say, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence."

They walked a short distance and began to throw stones.

* * *

><p>"So, Helga, I guess we should decide what to say about how you helped us."<p>

"Yeah, I guess so, football-head. Back in the boat I realized that my choices are pretty limited. First, I have to cop to telling you that Nick had the key, and besides that, Scheck _saw_ us rappelling down the building, which means we were definitely up there, together, on that observation deck."

As the memory of that the observation deck came back to Arnold, he temporarily lost his lucidity.

"All right Arnoldo, that's enough fantasizing for now," she said after a decently long wait, "So, how _did _we get up there? Let's think. What are our constraints?"

"Well," Arnold started, "one constraint is that you didn't take the bus there with us and Murray."

He threw a stone across the way into the dumpster.

"Actually Helga, I think the constraints are pretty strict inside FTI too. After all, just about all our movements are on video."

Helga turned pale.

"_All _our movements?"

"We were outside on when it happened," said Arnold reassuringly, but without conviction. "I mean, yeah, they could have recorded it, but even if they did, I stillthink we're pretty safe. FTI may be evil, but I think even _they _wouldn't stoop to publishing footage of nine-year-old kids kissing…right?"

"But Arnold, it's not just FTI we're talking about. I mean, any depraved security guard could steal a copy of that footage, if it's on their system. FTI might not blackmail us, but would everyone who works for them, and their _kids_, be so upstanding?"

Arnold shuddered.

"Helga, if that happens, I think there's nothing we can do…realistically, the only thing we could do is demand that FTI destroy all their copies of the footage. But if some employee already took it home with him, it would be useless anyway. And regardless, I'd _really _rather not tell FTI we want that tape; it'd make us look desparate."

"I guess you're right, football-head."

"I'll just tell you my opinion: if some terrible jerk does try to blackmail us, and I kind of doubt that would happen, I think the only thing we could do let them expose us. At _that_ point, to submit would be worse."

He threw another stone, which missed the dumpster.

"Fine," said Helga. "Anyway, we still have to explain how I got on the roof deck with you. If the cameras recorded all our movements, they'll know that I entered behind you wearing a trenchcoat. I kept my distance from you, and we never met. Arnold, I don't think we could say that you knew I was there."

Arnold nodded, his brow furrowed in thought.

"So, you entered the building withoutmy knowledge, and until we met on the deck, I did _not _know you were there. But, did I know _nothing_? Or did I already know that you were helping us? Suppose I did. Suppose," Arnold continued as if with a flash of inspiration, "that at the second phone call, at Nick's house, we learned the identity of Deep Voice. Although I wasn't expecting to find you in the building…when I did, it was a simple matter to arrange our escape together. Are there any holes?"

"Hmm," said Helga, "I used the voice disguiser in FTI's tower, after you supposedly knew who I was."

"Ah...that was…a good security measure. I mean, they could have been recording their internal phone calls. You didn't want your voice to show up on their tapes, did you?"

"I guess not. And your house phone was probably tapped too when I called it. The one time I could use my own voice was when I called that random pay phone outside Nick's house. Only _there_ I could tell you my identity…to, uh, convince you that you could trust Deep Voice."

"And after that," Arnold continued, "despite your unbounded confidence in my excellence in the art of espionage"—Helga rolled her eyes—"you followed me into the FTI building, just in case Gerald and I screwed it up. And of course, we did. We fled from the guards and split up, and finally I came to the garage, where you called me again. Thankfully, during that conversation I kept my head enough to call you Deep Voice instead of Helga."

"And that was the plan all along," Helga continued, "When I called you at Nick's house I made you swear never to mention the name of Helga Pataki in connection with this incident, _ever again_…just as if I was done with helping you. So you already knew not to use my name…although it was still pretty impressive that you didn't let it slip."

This last sentence was uttered with a tone of apparently genuine admiration.

"Anyway," continued Helga, "just like the voice disguiser was supposed to protect me from FTI's audio recordings, I wore the trenchcoat and stilts to avoid being recognized on their cameras. I thought my Dad was planning to get rich from the FTI deal, so there was _no way_ I'd let him find out I was helping you."

"Of course!" said Arnold. "The disguise wasn't for me, but for FTI and your dad, who you needed to keep in the dark no matter what. I think that just about covers it. You avoided us in FTI so I wouldn't be distracted by any of my, uh, inconvenient chivalrous urges, and so Gerald and I could concentrate on our mission. It's wonderful, Helga! Did we leave anything out?"

"Well, let's see, Arnold. Suppose they _did_ catch part of our deck meeting on tape. I guess you spent a rather long time talking to me, if you were already supposed to know who I was. And that demanding, inquisitive way you advanced on me before disguise fell off might be a bit suspicious."

"That's true," said Arnold. "But on the other hand, I didn't know how you followed me through the building, so we could have spent some time talking about that. And also…uh, maybe I thought you should take your stilts off or something…actually, I probably didn't know that you were even wearing stilts, so I could have been surprised by that." But this was unconvincing, not to say that it was complete crap.

"But, probably," he added, "if they have footage of that part of our meeting, they probably saw us kissing too. I guess if they question us about the deck meeting, to show up a discrepancy with a videotape, we'll just refuse to answer. It's private between us. I think we're entitled to have a private meeting on a roof deck without people assuming we're married or something."

At the word "married" Helga had a brief moment of distraction, but recovered.

"That's pretty good Arnoldo. So then we rappel down the side of the building, and get on the bus, and…oh crap! And then Gerald says, 'Helga? What's _she_ doing here?'"

"But Helga, that's OK! I mean, Gerald didn't know you were with us at FTI either. Of course he was surprised to see you, even though he _did_ know you were Deep Voice. And then…I said I didn't have time to explain it to him, which assumes that you told me about it, which must have taken about the amount of time we spent on that deck together. No, I really think we're OK, Helga."

He threw another stone, this time into the dumpster.

"Oh Arnold," said Helga affectionately, "I think our secret really is safe! Oh, this is wonderful!"

She was too mindful of their exposure to hug him, although she wanted to.

"Well, Helga, I don't want to upset you, and our secret _is _safe, but…the fact is, I _did_ tell Gerald about it yesterday."

"What!? Arnold, why would you do that?"

"Look, Helga…he's my best friend…And it's not like I was telling _on _you, I mean, really, it was more like me telling him that _I _loved _you_, and asking for advice. Anyway, Gerald's my friend and would never tell anyone. And," he added, "actually, when we talked among the wreckage that morning, Gerald overheard it, so it was _impossible _not to tell him about it, even if I wanted to."

"Arnold, I understand…I guess we can't all keep our feelings bottled up inside for years, can we?" And Helga smiled, as she realized how happy she was that Arnold, generally speaking, hadn't.

"Actually Arnold, I guess I should tell you that Phoebe knows too. I never told her, but she figured it out. She's pretty smart."

Arnold resisted the urge to ask if anyone else knew, which spared Helga the trouble of mentioning Lila. Instead, he threw another stone into the dumpster.

"Well, Arnoldo, _you _didn't tell anyone else, did you?"

"No, Helga! Cross my heart and hope to die. Although," Arnold smiled playfully, "there was this one time, when the guys and I were sitting in my room. My rotating couch suddenly opened, and _you_ flew in, covered in dust. I think you had a tape in your mouth, or something."

Holy shit, thought Helga. She turned white. "You mean, you RECOGNIZED me? Arnold, what _happened_ in there after I left? That instant, being suddenly thrown into your room like that, surrounded by all those staring eyes, was the worst shock I ever had!"

"Helga," he said tenderly, "I didn't _really_, truly recognize you that day. But somewhere, deep inside me, something about you struck me. Maybe some deep part of me recognized that bow of yours, although the dust made it grey instead of pink. But whatever it was, something in our souls connected, and as you fumbled toward the door, in my own mind, wheels were spinning: How, how, _how _could I make them forget what they saw? How could I save you, whoever you were, from being talked about? Helga…that was probably the most intense few seconds of thinking I ever did! I just _had _to change the subject. So I mustered up all my will, and with the straightest of faces, and the most normal tone of voice, I turned to Stinky and resumed the conversation, just as if nothing had happened. And it worked…it totally worked! Helga, I don't want to downplay how scary it was for you…but to me, after it was over, I felt _wonderful_ about how it ended. I'll bet ten to one nobody even remembers it!"[1][2]

"Nobody, I mean, except me and you. And then, up there on the observation deck, finally, it all came back to me, and I realized it was you…it was you all along."

Helga wanted to grab him and kiss him on the spot, and would probably have done so, except it would seem to devalue the secret-keeping service which Arnold had so triumphantly related.

"Arnold," said Helga with a mischievous smile, "Let's go to the movies."

(It is hardly necessary to state that both parties expected to be able to kiss unobserved in the movie theater.)

"But," said Arnold, "we'll have to sit in the back. They can see us if we sit in the front."

"Well, that goes without saying," replied Helga.

They quickly walked to the theater. What was playing now?

"There's _Evil Twin 3,_" said Arnold reluctantly.

"Already seen it," said Helga.

"Me too, actually," said Arnold. What else was there?

"Well, there's _Enchanted Bunnies 2_," said Arnold, rolling his eyes.

"Well, I'm sure I'd like that ever so much," said Helga, "but you see, Arnold, I don't think I can handle kissing you for _two hours straight_. If you don't mind, I'd rather do a movie where I can take a break and look at the screen for a minute or two without _dying of boredom._"

Unfortunately, they were too young to get into PG-13 movies, which limited their choices to the aforesaid.

"Well," said Arnold, "let's see _Twin _again then. You notice new things when you watch movies the second time anyway."

So they saw _Evil Twin 3 _once again. Although the armrests were annoying, we can say truly that during their second screening they did, in fact, notice some things which last time had escaped them.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Sid and Stinky were walking down the sidewalk. "…and remember that time when we were all sitting in his room, and she burst in through his couch, white as a ghost, and walked out the door, and he just…changed the subject?!" "Gosh, yeah," replied Stinky, "that Arnold sure is one heck of a gentleman."<p>

[2] The author is not entirely certain that the event described in Note 1 actually happened.


	14. The last supper

When Arnold and Helga left the theater it was about time for them to split up and head home for dinner.

Although Arnold might have been expected to invite Helga home with him he did not, for reasons which are not entirely clear. Of course, he knew that a dinner visit would tend to compromise their secrecy, which he valued more for Helga's sake than his own. Another part of him, recalling what he'd learned of Helga's previous shenanigans, didn't want to subject her to the inevitable embarrassing awkwardness. But the biggest obstacle must have been the cold fear which still weighed on him about his family's fate, which would have made any dinner difficult to enjoy.

But Helga was happy enough to go home, and indeed felt obligated to do it since with Bob arrested "someone has to take care of Miriam."

So they took the bus back to their neighborhood, and when they debarked near the head of Vine Street, Helga offered to walk Arnold home.

"I'd love to walk with you," he said, "but if my place is still being watched, uh…I guess maybe you shouldn't be seen there. Let's split up a block away."

"OK, football-head," said Helga affectionately, "It's too bad, though; I was looking forward to teaching you the best ways to sneak into that house of yours."

Arnold laughed. "Ah, I'm sure there will be other times. Anyway, I think at this point it's me who should be sneaking into _your_ house. I mean: I'm behind, after all."

"You're right about that, football-head! And the fact is, sneaking into someone's room is _way_ easier if you're doing it with the room-owner's permission. I don't know the exact ratio, but you'll need to sneak over a _lot_ if you're going to catch up to me."

"Oh," said Arnold with chagrin, "I don't know if I'll ever catch you then. After all, my points will be cancelled out whenever you come over to my place."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Arnoldo. I've got your house down to an art form. With you in on it, it would be nothing! I won't even _count_ those points. Heck, by now I could sneak in there in my sleep!"

Heck, she thought suddenly, I _did _sneak in there in my sleep. Twice.

"Anyway Arnold, as I'm sure you'll find out, the physical obstacles at my room are a bit more…_daunting_. You're in for a challenge, football-head."

But "Challenge," for all we know, was Arnold's middle name.

"So," he finally said, "I guess I'll see you at PS 118, at ten."

"No, Arnoldo… show up early, like Bridget said. I'm sure we can find 'something to do' for a few minutes!" replied Helga.

This was much to Arnold's liking. Nevertheless he nearly tried to give Helga the thumb gesture, but caught himself and hugged her instead. Arnold finally let Helga go and started walking home.

In the early-evening light Arnold noticed for the second day in a row an occupied, parked car across the street from his front door (or rather, from the substitute door which had been installed after Grandma was hauled to jail on the real one). But it was a different make, and the idle driver was not the same guy.

So he again decided to go around the back. This time, however, he saw another parked car across from his backyard, also occupied. When he got a bit closer Arnold saw (his depth perception being enhanced by the larger-than-average distance between his eyes) that the driver's hair was cut short. He looked fit too: a police officer in plain clothes. A shiver went down Arnold's spine. Yesterday, the watchers had consisted of a single journalist parked in front of the house; now the journalists had dropped to zero, and he had two cops instead.

And our dear football-head had been planning to sneak into his own house by some devious, as-yet-undetermined route, both for practice and as an homage to Helga's exploits. But now, as he felt the cop's stare, he knew this was impossible. He could do nothing but walk as normally and unsuspiciously as possible through his back door. And as he nervously tried to look normal and boring, it occurred to him that his plan to meet Bridget at ten was in very serious trouble.

When Arnold opened the back door he was alone; no pets rushed through. Entering through the kitchen he found that most of the cabinets were open, and empty: pots and pans were spread over the counter, the table, and the floor too, but no one was working. Where was Grandpa?

He went through the main hallway, where he noticed that the under-the-stairs closet door was ajar, and so was the grandfather clock by the front door, whose pendulum was stopped. Finally Arnold entered the living room and found his Grandpa watching TV, a vacant stare on his face, rocking lightly back and forth. But his posture was tense: he sat straight-backed in the chair, and his knees were at near-right angles; his hands gripped the armests tightly. In this room the cabinets were all open as well and the sofa had been stripped of its cushions, which now littered the floor around Grandpa's chair.

"Oh, hey shortman," said Grandpa flatly and without turning his head. "How was your day?"

Until a few minutes ago, this had been one of the best days of his young life. But now?

"It was OK."

For the first time our poor, pitiable football head was aware of a need to tread lightly around his normally-trusty old Grandpa, lest some insensitive comment provoke him to a violent explosion. He put one of the sofa cushions back, took a seat, and looked blankly at the TV. It was wrestling. But Arnold also studied Grandpa's face in his peripheral vision, and saw there the extreme tension which stretched a disturbing mixture of shame, rage, fear, and guilt into a quasi-neutral non-expression.

When the TV went into a commercial break Arnold decided he had waited long enough.

"Grandpa," he said expecting the worst, "what happened?"

The explosion began.

"What happened? _What happened?_ I'll tell you what happened! A couple hours after you left, the cops busted the door open, held me and the boarders at gunpoint in the backyard, and turned the whole place inside out! That's what happened! And what's more, they know it was me who blew up the second building! I'm _toast_, Arnold!

"First they ordered us all outside: me, the other boarders, and put guns in our faces. Then they sent vicious dogs into the house and searched every nook and cranny of the common areas, and most of the boarders' rooms! Their leader took me aside and said he _knew_ we blew up that building and tried to get me confess; they said it would be easier for me. Meanwhile, they're opening all the cabinets, throwing crap everywhere, and making a complete wreck of the place. Finally after about an hour or so they got done, and let us back in to clean up the mess."

"But you didn't, Grandpa…did you?"

"Oh, of course I didn't _confess_, shortman! And no one else did either. But we're toast anyway. It's only a matter of time now! Oh Arnold," he said as he began to cry, "I'm so sorry. I promised your parents I'd keep you safe, and now look at me! I'm going to jail, and you'll be sent to some foster home or something! Oh, Arnold…"

"Don't worry, Grandpa," said Arnold in the wrong tone of voice, "maybe it'll be OK…" and he reached to touch the back of Grandpa's hand…

But the latter jerked it back.

"_Don't touch me!_ I'll infect you with my criminality!"

* * *

><p>As Phil sobbed in the background, Arnold did some thinking. Could Big Bob have spilled the beans so quickly? No...if he had, the authorities wouldn't have contented themselves with a mere search, but have arrested Grandpa on the spot. Perhaps Bob had not quite <em>talked, <em>but merely let something slip sufficient to inspire the raid, and _then_ clammed up? In that case, Grandpa might come out of this OK. He didn't confess, after all...But Arnold knew that ultimately, Grandpa was right: It's only a matter of time. Unless Monkeyan's scheme could work _quickly_, they really were toast.

"Grandpa," he finally asked, "where's Abner?"

Grandpa dried his tears and looked kindly on the boy.

"Ah, shortman…Abner got panicky I guess, while they were searching the house. As the cops were lining us up in the backyard he rushed out the door, scurried along the fence, and disappeared down the street. God knows where he is now!"[1]

Arnold sighed. He was glad Abner wasn't hurt, and although it was terrible to know that his pet was lost in the urban wilderness, Abner _had_ found his way back once before, and could probably do so again. In any case, although it hurt him, Arnold knew he had other things to worry about.

"I hope he's OK," said Arnold. "Do you think the cops found anything?"

"Well, shortman…I'm sure they didn't find anything important. And anyway"—he leaned in closer and whispered—"we used _all _the stuff; we left nothing behind. They couldn't have found _that_."

At this Arnold leaned back, allowed the slightest hint of a smile to cross his face, got up from the couch, and said, "Grandpa, I'm hungry. I'll go try to cook something."

Then he walked briskly, if not sprightly, out of the room. Experience, you see, had taught Arnold that even if he thought Grandpa had reason for hope, _telling_ him so was useless. He therefore resolved to appear unfazed, content, and completely oblivious to pain, so that his buoyancy might be communicated nonverbally, and uplift the old man in spite of himself.

Once in the kitchen Arnold started organizing things again. He put the pots in their places; he picked up all the utensils and spice containers that had been strewn all over, mentally noting as he did the great mess the cops had made. When the kitchen looked moderately clean, Arnold took a cookbook down from the shelf and started flipping through it. What could he make by himself? As Arnold found a recipe he liked (which took some time, since he had to read many of them) and started looking around for ingredients, Grandpa entered the kitchen, his eyes twinkling.

"Need some help, shortman?"

Natrually he did, and would have done even if he was tall enough to reach all the cabinets.

"What're you thinking of making, anyway?"

Grandpa looked at the open cookbook.

"Hmph! Arnold, let's not make _that_! Here, I know a real nice recipe for Beef Stroganoff.[2] I mean, this could be the last dinner we have together, shortman! Might as well make it _good_."

Arnold didn't try to correct him about that 'last dinner' part. It was better not to talk about such things until they were eating good food. Besides, joked Arnold to himself, if he succeeded his only reward would be a slightly worse meal.

* * *

><p>As Arnold and Grandpa worked together, the latter held forth on the art of cooking. Arnold did his best to pay attention, while at the same time looking for opportunities to start a playful "ingredient-fight" with the old man. Unfortunately, this recipe did not offer much opportunity for this—Arnold only thought to take some of the sour cream on his finger and poke Grandpa somewhere. But as Arnold was too short to reach Grandpa's head effectively with his fingers, and the other options seemed unmanly, he declined to start anything.[3]<p>

When the meal was ready, Arnold and Grandpa sat down together to eat it. By now the old man was feeling much better, and he decided to tease Arnold a bit.

"So, shortman, how _was _your day? Did you and your little girlfriend do anything fun together?"

Arnold grinned. "Actually, we went on a boat ride."

"That sounds romantic, shortman. Did you hold hands?"

"A little. But only during the scary parts."

"The scary parts? But you love the water…Did you _kiss _her, shortman?"

Arnold's grin broadened. "Not on the boat, Grandpa!"

"Hahahaha…good for you, shortman!"

And now our football-headed hero sensed that the time was right. He leaned in a bit closer and lowered his voice.

"Grandpa," he said, "when I came home I noticed that the house is being watched from both sides. Are there any _other _ways out of the boarding house that you know of…like, I mean, _underground_?"

Grandpa, still mirthful, replied, "Oh, shortman…this isn't so that you can have a secret tryst with a certain _special someone_ tonight, is it?"

But Arnold just sat there and looked Grandpa in the eye with that wide, almost stupid grin again on his face.

"Arnold, you know I don't approve of sneaking into girls' rooms in the middle of the night…you have to start early!"

(We hasten to remind our readers that Grandpa was under a great deal of stress that day_._)

"Well Arnold…since this might be our last night together for a long time, I figure we might as well enjoy it to the full…give you something nice to remember me by. It turns out we have direct access to some secret tunnels dating back to the Tomato Incident, or even earlier. After dinner I'll take you down there, and we'll see what there is. But mind you, shortman, I haven't been down since the blast, and for all I know it could still be choked with noxious fumes."

"Awesome! Thanks so much, Grandpa! Secret tunnels…that's _exactly_ what I need."

As well as their obvious advantages for tonight's mission, it would be nice to know _something _about the boarding house that Helga didn't.

But now Arnold had to think of how to keep the conversation going without depressing Grandpa again. Have you heard from Grandma? Obviously not. How was wrestling? Stupid question. "Grandpa," said Arnold, "do you want to hear how Gerald, Helga and I got that tape out of Scheck's building?"

Of course he did; Arnold told him how, following the advice of the pseudonymous Deep Voice, and amply equipped for operations by that same Bridget whom Grandpa later saw playing the tape, they followed Nick Vermicelli, stole the key, and rode the bus to FTI. He omitted no detail of his contact with Deep Voice and its helpful nature, without however revealing her identity until he came to describe their rooftop meeting.

"I'd rather not share," said Arnold, "what happened up there on the deck, but basically I realized that you were right about her. She really did like me… and then we hopped down the side of the building on my rope, got on the bus…and you know the rest."

Grandpa, his eyes watering, beamed at Arnold.

"Why shortman, that's wonderful! I guess you turned about to be a real hero."

Arnold blushed.

"Grandpa," he said, "what happened up there, between Helga and I, needs to be kept secret, and I mean _totally _secret. You mustn't tell _anyone_!"

Grandpa nodded.

"We decided that when we go to the press—soon!—we'll say we learned Deep Voice's identity at the second phone call—near Nick's house—and that Gerald and I gratefully accepted her help, _as a_ _friend_, after that. We've thought about it and everything fits."

"Very clever, shortman. Arnold, I have to tell you, that's a wonderful story. Why, if you sell it at the right price, between that story and a mortgage on the boarding house, we might have enough money to make bail. Then we could skip town and ride the rails to Mexico!"

But Arnold didn't laugh, since it was by no means obvious that Grandpa was joking. Eventually, however, it became clear that he was; the dinner ended on a happy note.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] <strong>Author's note: <strong>I was _this _close to having the cops kill Abner during the raid. This would have been justified by (1) the real-life shooting of pet dogs by the police (See e.g. huffingtonpostdotcom / 2012 / 04 / 27 / cop-shoots-dog-puppycide_n_1446841dothtml and links therein), (2) the need to "restore balance to the universe" since there were no casualties from the reckless use of high explosives during the movie, and (3) a specific desire to punish our heroes for violating the extremely important rule, never to play with insurrection.

(The arguments _against _killing Abner are best left to the imagination.)

[2] Beef Stroganoff was selected _solely _because it is something I know how to cook. The precise meal is completely irrelevant to the story and you should feel free to imagine something better if you can (and if you think the ingredients were handy).

[3] See note 2.


	15. Secret secret secret

When our heroes finished their suitably satisfying meal, they put the used dishes in the sink. Grandpa made no attempt to wash them, either because he didn't want to keep Arnold waiting, or because he thought that for a man in his position there was no point. Instead he led the short man to the garage, and picked up a large flashlight with a looped handle.

"Now shortman," he said, "the thing about the secret tunnels is, they're _secret_. That means you can't tell anyone! Except later of course...I mean, you know, when the little Arnolds and Helgas are old enough to be let in on it."

"Grandpa…" rumbled Arnold hopelessly, and with little effect.

They walked back inside, and entered the closet beneath the front stairs, Grandpa closing the door behind them. The back wall of this closet was very much there. Grandpa felt in the dark for a thin beady chain which hung from the light fixture in the ceiling.

"Once," he said pulling the chain, as he turned the light on.

"Twice." He turned it off again.

"_Thrice!_" he concluded.

This time Grandpa pulled the chain about six inches farther, and Arnold heard a loud metallic _click_. Besides that, the light turned back on.

"Now we'll go through it. But push hard, shortman—we have to reset the mechanism."

Arnold and Grandpa pushed against the back wall of the closet. It gave way easily...but as he pushed against it, Arnold got the sense that there was an opposing force—if he let go, the door would slam shut. Was he raising weights, like a grandfather clock or something? In any case the door swung open, and when it came flush with the right wall another _click _was heard, and Grandpa let go; the panel was now fixed. Grandpa took up the flashlight once more, turned it on, and went down the tunnel with Arnold right behind him.

As Arnold descended the stairs and entered the arched passageway, littered as it was with broken pressure cookers and smeared with ancient stains of refried beans, he realized that there was only one place they could be going.

"Grandpa," he asked, "isn't this just the route to the downstairs bathroom?"

"Oh come on, shortman," Grandpa replied gruffly. "The secret entrance...to the _secret _tunnels...is in the _secret _bathroom! Sheesh, you think it'd be obvious. By the way, shortman, now that I've showed you how to get down here, you can use this bathroom too if you want. But _don't _tell anyone else; it's bad enough letting two people have access to this place—well, three counting your Grandma...why," he finished philosophically, "practically the only thing keeping me sane is knowing I can come down here when I need some undisturbed _me _time."

As Grandpa took a key down from the wall and fitted it into the door, Arnold wondered whether he was really tall enough to reach that chain in the closet. Probably not—Grandpa'd have this place to himself for a while yet.

But as Phil unlocked the door, something felt wrong. Indeed, it was loose in its frame. He pulled it open and flicked on the lightswitch. The lights of the chandelier blazed up-for a second or so, before emitting their death rattle and corpse-stench, the fizzling crackle of burning tungsten. But before they went out Grandpa took in the scene, and dropped the flashlight.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

* * *

><p>Somewhere upstairs, a car alarm went off. The cop who was parked in front of the boarding house perked up, scanned the horizon…but as the scream died down, went back to doing nothing.<p>

* * *

><p>In an apartment miles away Gertie, who was stabbing a piece of meat with a fork, interrupted the motion and looked pensively across the table at Aunt Mitzi.<p>

"Did you hear something just now?"

"Not a thing."

* * *

><p>Shocked, Arnold took the flashlight and shone it into the bathroom. The place looked, so to speak, like a bomb had gone off. Indeed it seemed to him that a very large bomb had exploded soemwhere behind the back wall: the shockwave had shattered it and thrown the pieces violently forward, where their impact and the blast pressure had smashed their way through the whole room, leaving a terrible swath of domestic destruction.<p>

In the typical bombed-out building (what one sees in movies or news reports), although the personal belongings of the victims may well be there, smashed and destroyed, they're usually buried beneath an undifferentiated mass of masonry-derived rubble. But here the back wall was pretty thin, so the wreckage was recognizable...and eerily familiar.

The glass walls of the shower box had shattered completely; shards lay everywhere. The fragments of the back wall joined them on the floor: shreds of pink wallpaper, individual pink tiles and parts of tiles, wooden slats, plaster chunks. The back of the bathroom now consisted of some long, dangling strips of wallpaper, a couple of the more solid vertical beams, and a very few horizontal plaster-encrusted wooden slats, though even those were cracked. The flashlight, playing beyond the wall, revealed a brick-walled tunnel very much like the one he was now in.

The toilet was still connected to its bulky wooden chair, but had been ripped out of the floor and was lying on its side near the center of the room. Its drain pipe broke above the level of the floor—and would have been visible had not the "throne" blocked Arnold's view—and the walls of its short platform stuck up like a jagged palisade built for mice. The shower head and its pipe (which had once been inside the back wall) were now thrust forward into the bathtub; the pipe was bent at an almost right angle, about two feet above the level of the floor. Indeed it was cracked there, and a fan of cold water sprayed generally upward, landing mostly in the tub.

But that was not all:[2] Among the wreckage were a large number of old-looking books, many of them face down…but every orientation was represented. Besides the books there were some cracked wooden boards which looked like they had once been part of a bookcase, some other boards whose origin was not clear, and the broken pieces of what had apparently been a picture frame. Looking carefully Arnold noticed that the water-fan was not entirely confined to the bathtub. About a fourth of the streaming water was landing on the floor behind the toilet, where he couldn't see. Grandpa's scream having died down Arnold could hear, besides the spraying of the water, a steady dripping, as if the water was draining into an unseen hole.

Then Arnold examined the floor, and saw that it was covered with a film of water which must have been about a quarter of an inch thick at its deepest point, no doubt supplied by the cracked bathtub pipe. Then he realized with a horrible start that those books, whose sentimental value he knew well enough, were soaking in it!

"Grandpa," he said urgently, "we have to turn the water off."

The old man made no response, but just stood there like a horror-struck statute.

Arnold resolved to take matters into his own hands. He turned around and marched briskly back up the secret passage, keeping careful track of every turn he made, and how many steps he took. He knew he had to go into the basement and close a valve somewhere. He wasn't sure where, but he thought that if he kept careful track of where he went, he could guess which pipe was the right one from where they all went.

He entered the basement and found the water pipes, tracing them as they split up and went into the walls and the ceiling. He soon figured out which pair—one hot, one cold—he thought went to the bathroom. The valves were in line, and since the pipes ran along the ceiling Arnold to his chagrin had no hope of reaching them.

He looked around for a stepladder and found instead a square-shaped wooden chair with four legs. But even this was not enough. The boy was desperate. He had to turn the water off _now!_

Then he had a bold idea. Though the seat wasn't high enough, he could just about make it if he stood on the _back _of the chair, the highest crosspiece. He knew he couldn't stand there—the chair would topple backwards—but maybe he could vault upwards from it and grab the pipe with his hands. Arnold wasted no time. He got off the chair, pulled it forward about eighteen inches, got back on, and tested the crosspiece's firmness with his foot. Common sense told him that if he tried to leap straight up, the force would cause the chair to tip backwards underneath him. So he stood back, near the forward edge of the chair, and thrust his body forward as he leapt, so that in pushing against the crosspiece his foot pressed it to his rear as well as downwards, towards the chair's center of support.

And his physical intuition did not betray him, for as Arnold caught the pipe at the top of his heroic leap, he heard the chair rock behind him and settle again on its feet.

Now he had the valve in hand. But it was tight! He let go of it and grabbed it again with one hand at the best angle, while with the other he hung from the pipe. With much effort Arnold closed the valve in stages, as his lower body twisted from the torque. Although it was clear from the lack of steam (and the temperatures of the two pipes) that the leaking water was cold, he went ahead and closed both valves anyway.

When all was done Arnold let himself drop back to the floor, and put it the chair back against the wall. Now that the water was off, Arnold had time to process what he had seen. He felt terrible for his grandpa, whose most hallowed mementos were now so foully wrecked. As he trudged back to the secret bathroom, Arnold tried to put himself in Grandpa's shoes, where he was horrified to discover that on top of it all, Grandpa was being devoured[3] by the knowledge that the bomb which destroyed his cherished heritage had been set by his own hand!

Arnold wondered if he could think of any horrible, sadistic fairy tale in which so terrible an epiphany had occurred.[4]

He got back to the bathroom door, and found Grandpa exactly where he left him. This was bad, but at least the water had stopped, although the mysterious dripping continued in the background. Arnold hesitated for a moment at the threshold of the bathroom…but he hardened his heart: Someone, after all, had to clean up those books.

But as he stepped through the doorway, Arnold felt Grandpa's hand gently grab him on the shoulder.

"Not now, Arnold…you'll cut yourself on the glass. Let's go upstairs first, and get some boots and gloves."

Arnold was deeply relieved to hear his Grandpa speak. But his tone was flat, expressionless, empty, and as they turned and walked silently back upstairs together, Arnold was more and more affected by it. It seemed like the bomb had torn out a chunk of Grandpa's soul. Arnold looked up at Grandpa's grim, suffering-engraved face. Perhaps Grandpa's heart had been ripped out of his chest and thrown upon the heap of wreckage, and even now some invisible, blood-like substance was seeping down through the heap of books, mixing with the standing water, and drip-drip-dripping through that unseen hole, never to return.

And as Arnold accompanied his sullen grandfather back up the passage, he wept silently.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] The secret passage <em>must<em> be normally closed; how else could Arnold have failed to find it before "Four-eyed Jack"? (Moreover, in this story it must be hidden from the cops.)

[2] The destruction of the bathroom flows directly from its location relative to the bomb, and the laws of physics. But at first I assumed that our heroes—stoic, unselfish, brave men— would shrug off the material losses, and proceed almost unimpeded.

_Then_ I re-watched "Grandpa's Birthday" and saw the old man sadly reading from a book called _Memories_, which he took from a bookcase **within arm's reach of the toilet! **This made it necessary to take a rather different approach.

"What I love best, must I surrender;  
>slay him whom most I cherish,<br>basely betray who in me trusts!"

The now-inevitable emotional massacre is entirely Phil's fault. How could he have stored precious antique books in a _working bathroom_ (hot showers!) instead of that "cool, dry place" which everyone with a smidgen of common sense knows to use instead? Frankly, it angers me.

(Lyrics from _The Valkyrie_, Act II. See homedotearthlinkdotnet / ~ markdlew / shw / Ringdothtm  
>Another oddly relevant opera quote is "Thou shalt break them" from Handel's <em>Messiah<em> e.g. youtubedotcom / watch?v=Gpt6h-f-nlU )

[3] "Some writers," says Jaroslav Hasek in a footnote to _The Good Soldier Svejk_, "use the expression: 'gnawed by the reproaches of his conscience'. I do not regard this expression as altogether appropriate. After all, a tiger devours a man and does not gnaw him."

This IMO hilarious work of Czech literature can be easily found online, in English.

[4] Arnold might have remembered the crimes of Heracles while temporarily insane. Oedipus' epiphany was also obviously worse. (See Oedipus the King on wikipedia)


	16. Picking up the pieces

Meanwhile, at the Patakis' dinner table, Big Bob (having been released on bail) was describing his interrogation:

"…and then they dropped the overpass, and started asking about that kid Arnie's grandpa."

Helga perked up but kept eating, listening intently.

"'Look Bob,' they said, 'we _know _he and some riffraff from his boarding house were camped out in front of the place before the bulldozers started rolling, and we _know_ that crazy old fart was desperate and ready for anything, and we _know _that right after the second building blew up he disappeared for a good twenty, thirty minutes. And we know **you** were with him, right there in the foxhole, just before it all went down.'

'What are you getting at?'

'What we're getting at is, we'd really like to know how that building came down. If Phil was involved, if you helped us convict him, why, I think we could reduce your charges considerably…you'd get off with a suspended sentence!'"

"You didn't…you didn't take the deal?" asked Helga, almost without trying to conceal her horror.

"No," replied Bob, "not yet anyway. But then I realized they meant business. I remembered they can get you for lying to them, so I clammed right up and asked for my lawyer. But they wouldn't give up: 'Listen, Pataki, when your lawyer gets here, he's going to advise you to take it. We don't mind waiting, but I'll tell you this: you're never going to get a deal this good again. If someone else goes first, your help won't be nearly as valuable as it is now.'

'How long will this be on the table?'

'Who knows? Probably not long…there were a lot of other people around.'

'I'll think about it. But until then, whatever I saw or didn't see in front of the boarding house is between me and my lawyer.'"

"But, Dad," asked Helga tremulously, "you're not going to do it…are you?"

"Well, look Olga, I wasn't really planning on doing it soon, 'cause I actually like that crazy old man. He's got guts, anyway...if I _did _do it though, I could totally sink him. Basically Helga"-he used her right name this time-"they've got me in a bind. It's not only the assault charges…if they start digging into my business affairs, well, I didn't do anything I can't defend, but they cost us a huge amount in legal fees if they really wanted to. I figure the deal is only gonna get worse with time, and if I'm going to end up taking it anyway, I guess it's better to do it sooner rather than later…but still, I admit, it feels bad..."

And that was true; it felt dishonest to turn Phil in for something which Bob, at the time, had approved of… but what else could he do? He doubted that Phil would treat him any better in like circumstances.

"But Dad," said Helga imploringly and with some desperation, "think of Arnold. The kid was practically an orphan before, and you saw how his Grandma wrecked all those bulldozers. At her age, she'll probably die in jail! If his Grandpa goes too, he'll have no one left." She looked at him in a sad and rather affecting way.

"Helga," Bob said sadly, "I guess you know the kid pretty well. Does he…uh… how does he get along with his grandparents?"

"Oh, Dad, they get along great. He loves them! They go on fishing trips together, they tell him stories…why, you should see his room! His Grandpa built this awesome couch that retracts into the wall when he's not using it…"

As Helga related these things, she realized with deep pain how unfavorably her own relations with her parents compared with what she was describing. She almost choked up. Of course the adults were stung, too.

"You were in his room?" asked Bob suspiciously, to distract from his guilty conscience.

"It was for a school project."

"Well, Helga…" he said, "I guess I can see where you're coming from. I think I could hold out a little longer, especially if you feel strongly about protecting the little guy…" He trailed off, evidently expecting a response.

Helga quickly repressed the reflex of denying her feelings for Arnold.

"Please, Dad…"

"_Fine_," said Bob with exaggerated gruffness, "I guess I can hold out for another week…that's it. Helga, I _promise _not to crack for _one week_. After that, well, I'll reassess the situation and decide again."

Helga looked at him with grateful sympathy. She knew, of course, how hard it was for her dad to commit to something like this. And as she thought about it, it struck her that she was the _worst _family member ever. She once had told Olga that she loved her best the farther away she was, and with that avowal Olga had gone to the remotest parts of Alaska to teach underprivileged Inuit children. Now, in effect, she was telling her dad that she loved him better behind prison walls than as a free man. And now he, too, would obey the grim demands of Helga's unfortunate "love." Of course they deserved better than this from Helga, as imperfect as they were.

But really, no one at that dinner was above self-reproach. Bob was especially sad, since his new-found desire to be more attentive was now going to be frustrated by his apparent commitment to prison. And although Bob could reconsider, he knew that to betray Phil and destroy Arnold's life would be as morally difficult a week from now as it was this evening. At least Miriam could manage the business while he was in prison.

And Miriam too thought of that, but she didn't especially want to, remembering how she had neglected Helga the last time.

* * *

><p>But now we must return to the boarding house, where Arnold and Phil were preparing for the gut-wrenching salvage operation, the need of which had interrupted their trip to the tunnels.<p>

They went to the garage, where Grandpa found a hand lamp, a headlamp, some work gloves, and a large custodian-style broom. Then they went up to the fishing room and got two pairs of tall boots. It was in the fishing room that Grandpa, silently absorbed in his thoughts, finally saw the unmistakable signs that Arnold had been recently crying.

The knowledge struck him like the ton of bricks that broke the camel's back. Phil broke down and started crying himself, giving off an involuntary sob-sneeze that drew Arnold's attention. He, seeing this, himself started crying again. And for a while the grandpa and grandson silently held each other in the fishing room, while the tears flowed down.

But they scene ended before long, for they both thought it unseemly for men-or at least themselves-to cry. Grandpa in particular realized that he needed to be strong for the sake of his grandson. He resolved to at least put up a façade of his old voluble self, however little his heart was still in it. Above all, he didn't want his grief to immiserate his poor grandson any further. Finally, they finished putting on their equipment and proceeded downstairs once more.

When they arrived at the bathroom, Grandpa stuck his broom through the door and pushed the rubble and broken glass immediately in front of him to the left. He repeated this motion until he reached the first book, which was not far from the sink—which incidentally was structurally intact, although there was a pile of dust and rubble chunks near the drain. As the broom pushed the debris, it shoved in front of it a frightful film of water, which flowed back after each sweep.

Grandpa plugged the hand-lamp into an outlet and rested it in the sink, so the bulb stuck up and for illumination. Then he looked at the first book. It was flipped open and lying with its covers up, but no title was visible.

Bending low to look at it, Arnold could see that floor resembled a calm, flat sea with the tiles, rubble pieces, and glass shards sticking up like so many jagged islands.

Grandpa leaned over and gently picked the book up [he was wearing work gloves] by the two ends of its spine. Turning it, he found it completely soaked—for although the puddle here was not nearly as deep as the book's thickness, the pages had sucked the water up by capillary action.

* * *

><p>Well, what can I say? The truth is, I'm no expert on what happens when an ancient leather-bound book with yellowing pages is violently thrown into a puddle and allowed to soak there for a day and a half. Does the ink spread out, reducing each printed page to an almost-uniform grey patch? Do the pages glue themselves together, so that when it dries each half of the book becomes a hard, brittle brick? Can one separate the pages at all while still wet, without ripping them? I don't know the answers to these questions. Actually, even if I did know I wouldn't tell you. It would be like publishing the discovery that honesty is not the best policy.<p>

If you're curious, reader, I think your best bet is to by some lucky chance encounter Arnold on the street (he must be in his twenties by now) and ask him about it, provided of course that Helga is not with him.

* * *

><p>Grandpa gently leaned the book inside the sink, that the pages might gradually dry out. But there were many books, and it was obviously necessary to devise some better system for drying them all.<p>

"Listen, shortman," said Phil, "we need to dry these books. Could you go get some clothesline from the laundry room, and some long ribbon for me? I'd like to hang them up, so they'll dry better."

Of course Arnold was willing to do whatever his grandpa required. He went there and got the clothesline, and in the attic, he found some long Christmas ribbon. Meanwhile, Phil went to the basement and got a hammer and some nails, as well as some string, scissors and-most important of all-his grandfather's historic shish-kabob stick, last used (with one minor exception) in 1926.[1]

They met again in front of the bathroom. Well back in the tunnel, behind Four-Eyed Jack's wrecked pressure cookers, Grandpa drove a nail into a wooden beam at an angle, and tied one end of the clothesline to it, and the ribbon.[2] (The point of the ribbon was to help spread the weight of each book out more than if it had rested on the clothesline alone.)

The plan was to string the line between the wall and one of the iron candle-holding fixtures, suspending the books from it by their spines. To pass the line through each book, they tied the other end of it to the shish-kabob stick via a small piece of string.

Grandpa fetched the book from the sink and threaded its spine while Arnold watched. Then he carefully pulled the line through it, until the book was hanging near the end of the line, where the nail held it to the wall. The book's weight caused its spine to bow outward, so that it opened noticeably.

But the book could only stay still if either the rope was held horizontal under tension, or if someone was directly holding it in place. For now, they agreed that Arnold would hold the book(s) while Grandpa went to the bathroom and recovered them one by one. When Grandpa came back with a book, he would hold the line taught while Arnold threaded the new arrival onto it. When the number of books on the line became too much for Arnold to hold up directly, he would hook the line over one of the candle fixtures and pull down to keep the line tight. When Phil came back with a book, he would take the line off of the fixture and hold it tight himself while Arnold threaded the spine.

And that is what they did. As Arnold saw the books coming in, he noticed that their condition varied greatly. Some of them had landed on one cover, but opened with the other cover propped up by some rubble, so that only one half of the book was wet. Some, like the first, had been thoroughly soaked. Others had managed to land on larger pieces of rubble, so they didn't even touch the water. One book, indeed, seemed so completely undamaged that instead of stringing it up Grandpa set it on the floor, leaning against the wall.

Finally, Phil came up to Arnold empty-handed.

"Well, shortman, there's one book left, but the toilet came down on it and I can't pick it up. I need your help."  
>And Arnold, who had seen each book in turn, realized by process of elimination (and not without horror) which one it was. It was the book Grandpa had once looked at while sitting on the toilet, whose simple title, "Memories," was emblazoned across the front in beautiful flowing script. Arnold put some tension in the line, tied it, and went back down with a heavy heart.<p>

The first thing he noticed was that the bathroom was much cleaner than before. The books (of course) were all gone, and practically all of the debris had already been swept into a great heap on the left side. He could now see the book's pink cover poking out from under the curvature of the toilet bowl, which pressed it into the floor. He and Grandpa then grabbed the heavy "throne" and braced themselves. Each of them had one of their hands on the bowl near the book, and the other pushing against the wood, so that they would lift the toilet as straight up as could be.

With a great heave they lifted the toilet and tipped it into the left half of the bathroom, where it displaced some rubble as it crashed down on its other side. The book's covers had been bent by the weight, and it was clear to our football-headed hero that its pages must be completely soaked.

Then Phil gently picked it up, both by the cover and the wet mass of paper which was underneath it. But when he turned it vertically to look at the open face, the book fell apart: the wet, pulpy mass that had been the pages fell away from the covers and landed on the still-wet floor with a sickening plop. In the short time the paper was visible, Arnold realized that it was not only soaked, but badly cut up. For the open book had landed not just on the floor, but on some sharp pieces of plaster blasted from the wall, so that when the toilet landed on it, its momentum pushed the book across the jagged shards.

Arnold, of course, felt terrible. But Grandpa, although for him the loss must have been ten times worse, bent over rather quickly and picked up the pages. He put the remains in the sink and spread them with his hands.

"Grandpa," said Arnold miserably, "I'm sorry."

That was all he could think of. Arnold dearly hoped that the god of vengeance would be satisfied with this punishment, and not send the old man to jail on top of it all.

But Grandpa, who thought differently, actually smiled.

"Well, shortman, maybe it's better this way. I mean, it's not like I could've taken that book to prison with me."

But this was so totally unconvincing-of course Grandpa could have bequeathed it in one piece-that Arnold could only sigh.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] "Grandpa's [paternal] grandfather" is supposed to have died in 1921. (See heyarnolddotwikiadotcom  wiki / Grandpa%27s_grandfather .) The shish-kabob stick was probably used by his _maternal _grandfather, who may have lived a bit later.

[2] It occurred to me that during the investigation, police detectives must have been admitted to the scene of Four-eyed Jack's apparent death. It follows that, in an institutional sense, the Police Department knows about the secret passage! Its archives contain documents of an extremely suggestive and dangerous character, the discovery of which would blow the present case wide open. We may hope that (1) the Four-eyed Jack case occurred in the 1930's [but it couldn't have been much earlier, since the highway overpass was already under construction] so that the detectives who investigated it have had time to die, (2) at this date the digitization of police records has not yet covered such ancient material, and (3) the cops have enough present-day leads to keep them distracted for a while.

In any case, however, it seems that Bob's "one week" time scale is no longer relevant.


	17. Secret secret secret (part II)

"Well," said Phil to his grandson, "now that the books are taken care of, I guess we can go back to showing you those tunnels. They're behind the back wall, you know."

He took the broom again and swept the remaining debris—the stuff near the back of the bathroom—to the left. As he did so, as if to distract himself, he began to tell Arnold about the old tunnel entrance.

"…the way this place worked was, part of the back wall was on hinges. It was the rightmost third or so of it, above the tiles. To unlock it, you had to pull a lever behind the shaving mirror. It was really something, shortman. You see, behind the mirror are some shelves, like in a normal bathroom. But the back wall of it was fake; if you unhook a little latch, you can lift it up and reveal the lever. Pull it, and that wall panel unlocks; you could push it open with your hands. (The wallpaper hid it pretty well.) We opened it but, we needed a stepladder to get over the tiled part."

"It's over there," he said, sweeping his hand at the great heap of junk on the left side of the room. And the bits of a wooden step ladder may well have been in there somewhere.

"Grandpa," said Arnold impressedly (but probably more to comfort him than anything else), "that's pretty cool. How did you find out about it?"

"Well, shortman, actually...I found out all on my own. You see, one day when Mitzi and I were teenagers, she closed the closet wall while I was down here-you know, as a practical joke. _That_ was fun. By the way, shortman, as far as I know it's _impossible_ to open that panel from this side, otherwise I'd figured it out…I was down here for a couple hours…finally I started fooling around with the mirror and I found the lever. I pulled it, and the panel opened. I climbed through, and found myself in…the secret tunnels. You should have seen the look on her face when I walked right through the front door! I think she still doesn't know how I did it.

"Actually, my dad knew about those tunnels too, but he didn't tell me about them until much later, after I came back from the war."

By this time the debris had been cleared all the way to the shattered remnant of the back wall. With his hands and feet, pulling, gently punching, and kicking, Grandpa cleared away the last pieces which hung from the ceiling or jutted up from the floor, making a nice big hole between the right wall and a vertical wooden beam. His movements were quite calm and well controlled, so Arnold had a hard time figuring out whether he was venting any suppressed rage.

"Shortman," said Grandpa as he was working, "if you want to make yourself useful, you can find the flashlight again. We'll need it pretty soon."

Having enlarged the hole sufficiently Grandpa climbed through, and crouched in the tunnel beyond. Arnold, coming up behind him with the flashlight, found a vaulted stone passage like the one leading to the bathroom, which ended about eight feet from the bathroom wall. In the middle of the floor was a hole about three feet in diameter. The water-film on the bathroom floor extended out to its near edge, and water was still dripping through, a couple of drops per second.

"I guess they're down there?" asked Arnold; Phil nodded.

Then Arnold shone the light down the hole, looked, and saw deep water. On careful inspection he could see the tunnel floor, but the water must have been at least a foot deep. It seemed strange, but Arnold remembered that the pipe had been spraying for at least a day and a half.

"There should be a rope ladder attached to the back wall," said Phil.

This was ture; it was attached to the wall with a couple of iron studs; the ladder itself was piled on the floor underneath them. It looked pretty old. Illuminated by Arnold's flashlight, Grandpa took the coiled mass of with both hands and tossed it down the hole. It uncoiled itself, but there was enough left over to make a loud splash at the bottom.

Then Phil borrowed the flashlight and looked down the hole himself.

"It doesn't look that deep, shortman. Here, I'll take the headlamp. You follow me with the flashlight," which he then gave back.[1]

The descended the ladder and Arnold, seeing the great size of the tunnels, was mystified by the quantity of water which filled them; it came halfway up the shins of his boots.

"This is a lot of water, Grandpa. Could it really have come from that…that pipe?"

Arnold, who was not known to swear, nevertheless had to stop himself from using the word 'damned' in that question. (He was later inspired—by Bridget, shame on her!—to wonder if "that fucking pipe" would have been grammatically correct.)

"I doubt it, shortman. But if we'd split a water main, it would have kept rising."

He gestured to the wall, where a wetting line an inch or two above the water was clearly visible.

"My guess," said Phil, "is that its spillage from the storm drain or the sewers."

Then he dipped his gloved finger in the water and sniffed it.

"Yep," he said, "definitely sewage! But diluted with water from the street."[2]

Behind our heroes, the tunnel ended with a nearby wall. Ahead of them, it went straight through a four-way junction. About twelve feet past the intersection, the tunnel was ended by an impenetrable but disorderly pile of bricks and rubble, which reached to the ceiling.

Here Arnold, disturbed by how echoey the tunnels were, lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Grandpa," he said gesturing at the rubble pile, "is that where…it happened?"

Grandpa nodded.

They waded up to the pile and examined it. Looking down, Grandpa saw that the water, channeled thorugh the gaps in the rubble, was flowing out at noticeable speed.

"Just as I thought," he said in a whisper, "the sewer must have been breached on the other side. And the breach must be pretty big. See…now in the dry weather, the drains run low, and the water flows back where it came from."

And Arnold remembered the rain which occurred a couple of days before, which had stopped just as he was about to meet Deep Voice on the roof.

"Well," said Phil, "there's no point in standing around here. Come on, I'll show you where we got out."

They returned to the intersection and turned left. After about ten paces-Grandpa's paces mind you, not Arnold's-they reached something: In the right wall, starting about eighteen inches above the ground, and several inches above the water, was a heavy iron panel with a large, rusted handle. Sharing the curvature of the wall, it was evidently intended to be opened by sliding parallel to the axis of the tunnel. In fact, it was already "cracked" by about an inch.

Grandpa walked up to it, grabbed the handle, and with noticeable effort-and noise!-pulled it open. (Indeed Arnold worried that someone would have heard it.)

Behind the door there began a short, brick-walled passage, which branched off from the tunnels at about 45 degrees. A couple of feet from the opening there was a series of shallow, gently ascending brick steps which stretched three or four more feet. Then there was another level section, where the passage ended at a brick wall with pronounced convex curvature. This had two shelf-like horizontal protuberances about two feet apart made of the same ancient, weathered-looking red brick. Between them was a large metal lever, something like a door latch or the handle of a safe.

Arnold, following Grandpa, climbed inside the alcove and crouched on the stairs.

"Well, there it is," whispered Grandpa. "That door right there opens into the wall of a manhole, about halfway down. You can get on the ladder from here and climb up, as we did with the wire…or down, to reach the sewer system. When the door is closed (like it is now) from the other side it looks just like part of the manhole wall."

Arnold nodded; it was very clever.

"Grandpa," he whispered, "if you don't mind me asking, what happened after you went back into the manhole, after the explosion?"

It is only fair to say that Arnold's genuine desire to hear the old man's tale was combined with concern about his own escape. For _this _manhole was clearly out of the question; it was in Vine Street, mere feet probably from the cop out front.

"Oh, shortman," Phil whipsered, "it was pretty bad. You see, the manhole wall sealed so tight that couldn't close it all the way with the wire going throgh. When the explosion happened, the pressure threw it open and filled the manhole with fumes."

(But it was just as well that the door could not be closed, for it would probably have been blown open anyway, and its locking mechanism destroyed.)

"Once down, the first thing I did was replace the manhole cover. By the time I got to the door, the fumes attacked me. It was pretty bad. And before long I heard sirens and cops' voices swarming in the street above. I couldn't even cough!"

And this filled Arnold with pity, so that he almost teared up, and held his Grandpa's hand with sympathy.

"Well shortman, from that point on the ladder, I pulled on the wire as hard as I could…and it all came back to me. That was some good news, I can tell you: I was afraid it'd get snagged on something! Well, after that I decided I'd had enough. I pushed the door shut and heard it click, and then I went down the ladder to the sewer, and…well, I got out eventually, after leaving the stuff where no one will ever find it."

"Grandpa," asked Arnold, "are there any _other _ways out of the tunnels that you know of? Like, do you remember what you did when Aunt Mitzi locked you there?"

"Hmph…what's wrong, shortman? I'm _pretty _sure there aren't alligators down there! But actually, when Mitzi locked me downstairs, I found this same exit pretty quick, and went right out the same manhole; I didn't spend any more time down here than I had to! Once I was out I walked around, got some food, went the movies…you know, just to make her nervous…then I came home in time for dinner. The truth is, I never really explored these tunnels. I mean," he finished thoughtfully, "yeah, there must be other exits, but I've no idea where they are."

Arnold was dissatisfied. The truth was, he _really _didn't want to run into a certain so-called Sewer King again, especially alone and at night.[3]

"Grandpa, when you get down into the sewer, how simple is it to escape? Is it just a straight shot, or a long journey with a lot of turns and stuff?"

"The second one."

"Uh...Grandpa...I don't want to be needy or anything, but I'd _really _rather not spend much time in the sewers if I can avoid it. Do you mind if I look around these tunnels for other exits?"

"Oh sure, shortman, but not like this. First, I'll need to give you a map, a compass, some batteries…I'll make a periscope out of some pipes for you…shortman, I figure this can't be the only manhole they've hooked up like this; maybe one of the other ones is safe to use. The _one_ thing I forbid you to do," said Phil sternly, "is to enter someone's house through the tunnels—without permission, I mean. After all, we _can't _be the only house around with access to these tunnels, even if the other owners may have forgotten."

But Arnold, who hadn't even considered the possibility of other houses being connected, would have imposed this restriction on himself in any case. But then a thought struck him: was Helga's house on the network? That led to some interesting possibilities…but she probably would have told him if she knew. Forgetting about it, he accompanied his Grandpa upstairs once more, hunting for equipment.

This time Phil resolved to leave nothing undone. Unfortunately, he lacked the materials to fashion a periscope out of pipes—the pipes themselves, and also a way to cut the mirrors into those nice ellipses. He had to settle for the milk-carton version. For the mirrors, he went into the wrecked bathroom, took some of the larger pieces of the shaving mirror, and cut them into rectangles. After gluing the mirrors in, he painted the milk carton black for camouflage.

During the course of this Phil and Arnold help managed to put together a nice zoomed-in map of the neighborhood, a compass, some replacement batteries for the flashlight and head-lamp, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a clipboard, pencils for Arnold to take notes with, a crowbar (useful for prying open stuck portals), a nice, heavy raincoat, a pack of smelling salts, bottles of antibacterial soap and hand sanitizer, and a sachet of potpourri which Phil fitted with an elastic band and unsuccessfully suggested that Arnold wear over his face. Phil even managed to foist his World War II-vintage entrenching tool upon the young football-head, in case his path should be blocked by mud, dirt, or some other substance.

Going over his own needs in his head, Arnold realized that he should get a watch—the thing that most galled him since yesterday had been his inability to tell the time.

"Grandpa," he said, "uh, I don't actually have a watch. Do you think you could let me borrow one? If you could," he added for some reason, "a wristwatch would be the most convenient."

"No can do, shortman. I only have pocket-watches. But you're welcome to have one, since you might lose track of time down there…or at Helga's place!"

(By this point Arnold knew that even muttering "Grandpa" was useless, so he said nothing.)

So Grandpa went to the kitchen, and opened that drawer which contained at least a dozen madly ticking copies of his "Snitzenbauer Timemaster 909."[4] Oddly, this drawer was totally undisturbed by the police raid. Perhaps the cops, although they'd rampaged like barbarians through the rest of the kitchen drawers, had been struck with such supersitious awe at the sight of the ticking watches that they dared not touch them, and shut the drawer without further ado. And although Arnold really would have preferred a wristwatch, he thought the pocketwatch would be an appropriate peace offering if, God forbid, he _did _run into the Sewer King down there.

Grandpa took a watch and handed it to Arnold.

"All right," he barked, "Synchronize watches!"

The time, 8:55 PM, struck Arnold with horror. It was only an hour till his meeting at PS 118, and he hadn't even found the way there yet! Arnold knew where the time had gone, but it still jolted him. He realized then that there was no time to make scouting the tunnels into a separate mission. He had to go "straight" from the boarding house to PS 118, and he ought to start immediately.

He went up to his room and changed out of normal street clothes, putting on instead hat sweater which he last wore (as far as we know) when he and his grandma, had freed Lockjaw from the aquarium. And Arnold halted, sorely touched by the memory of his Grandma, now hiding God-knows-where, and it occurred to him that the city possessed a practically unlimited number of cold, wet, smelly, miserable, and dangerous hiding places. Was his poor Grandma in one of them now?

…but before he left the room Arnold affectionately, but with haste, cut Helga's picture from the school yearbook (he was shocked to find that he had no other pictures of her) and put it in his pocket. Although it was not in his nature to rely on good luck charms, he wanted to have some physical reminder of Helga with him as he journeyed into the unknown.

* * *

><p>Although this didn't happen until somewhat later, now is a convenient time to mention that when Helga prepared herself to leave, she pulled out her locket and looked lovingly at Arnold's picture. She addressed to it some moving love-poetry, which we will not attempt to reproduce. Included in some form was the thought Arnold's actual love was infinitely more valuable and useful than his portrait which this time she did <em>not<em> take with her, but left securely in the drawer of her nighstand.

Although Helga's difficulties in reaching PS118 were quite minor compared to what Arnold would soon have to experience, we may briefly summarize them. She planned to leave by her bedroom window, following the route she took when sleepwalking to Arnold's fire escape (as described _a posteriori _by Phoebe). When she returned her parents would be sound asleep, and she could enter by the front door without waking them.

But the descent to the tree presented serious difficulties, and it seemed terribly unreasonable to jump down to it directly from the window. After a great deal of thought she decided to use her grappling hook in the following carefully-thought-out manner:

She tied the free end of the long rope very near the hook, making in effect a long loop, then threw the hook and caught a firm tree branch. The loop of rope she wrapped securely around her bed—an effectively immoveable object—and pulled it tight, so that the section from the window to the tree formed in effect a double tightrope. Then she slid down the line to the tree, undid the knot, and pulled on the rope, so that it unspooled and came wholly back to her. (To throw the hook back into the room would have been too noisy, of course.)

And Helga left her coiled-up grappling hook in the tree, both because it was inconvenient to carry it with her in the street, and also to aid a certain naïve football-head, should he later attempt to enter her room that way. Indeed, she thought as she climbed down, she did not lie when she told him that the physical difficulties were daunting.

* * *

><p>After getting everything together, Arnold thought it proper to present himself to Grandpa before he left.<p>

"Well, shortman," said Grandpa, "I have to say, you look like the smartest, most perfect…little…mole-person!"

And so it was. With the head-lamp strapped to his head, the yellow raincoat, the full backpack with clipboard jutting out, the large flashlight strapped across his chest, the entrenching tool hooked so that it dangled a bit from his backpack, the crowbar in his hands, but not yet the big boots, which had been taken off downstairs, Arnold looked, shall we say, ready. (Perhaps too ready, for the stuff brushed against his legs a bit when he moved, and the weight was considerable.) The only thing he lacked, it seemed, was night-vision goggles—but he didn't need them anyway.

"Well, shortman," Grandpa continued, "while you were upstairs I came up with another idea. Just to make sure you don't get lost down there, I'll take a long spool of fishing line, slip the hook through the lip of your coat pocket, and strap the rod across the hole behind the bathroom…don't look at me like that, shortman, it's not like I'm putting you on a leash! Well, I guess it is, really…but don't knock it until you've tried it!"

"Think about it, Arnold. The fishing reel will pull on you just a little bit, so it won't slow you down, but it'll guide you back if you ever lose your orientation. You'll have five hundred yards of secure freedom, and if you need to, why, of course you can always unhook the line and let it go. Anyway, I feel just a _little_ bit bad about releasing you into those tunnels, with all sorts of alligators and rats and Morlocks and God-knows-what-else-is-down-there, without any way to get back."

Arnold decided that it was better to humor his Grandpa in this case; besides, there was a small chance it would actually help.

"OK," he said, "let's do it."

So Grandpa and Arnold descended once more to the bathroom, Arnold carrying all the above-mentioned articles, and Grandpa with a fishing reel and a roll of duct tape. As Arnold stopped to put his boots on Grandpa taped the fishing rod across the edge of the hole (not across the center, since it would block Arnold's passage). Then he drew out a length of fishing line, and poked the fishhook through the lip of Arnold's front-right raincoat pocket.

Now, as they both felt, it was really time for Arnold to go. Grandpa drew himself up to his full height and made Arnold a short inspirational speech:

"You are about to embark on the great crusade, towards which we have striven these many minutes. The eyes of the world are not, and hopefully won't be, upon you. The hopes and prayers of no one—except me of course, and maybe Helga—march with you. But before you go, I have to impress upon you some ground rules.

"Rule #1: **No **breaking into people's houses!"

Arnold was a bit miffed at hearing this for the second time. Who did Grandpa think he was dealing with?

"Rule #2: When you come back, close the door in the closet. This is important—that door needs to be closed when not in use. To close the door, first bring it near to being closed with your hands, then pull the light chain three more times.

"Rule #3: Have fun!

"Rule #4: Don't get in trouble.

"Rule #5: Don't get _Helga _in trouble.

[It must be stated that Phil, though not Arnold of course, was aware of the second meaning that could be ascribed to rule #5.]

"Rule #6: Don't track mud in the boarding house. When you come back, take off your boots and leave them downstairs. I'll find them later, unless they arrest me first.

"Any questions, shortman?"

"Actually, Grandpa," said Arnold, "about rule #2. Honestly, I don't think I'm tall enough to pull that chain by myself. Do you think you could leave a footstool or something in there for when I get back?"

"Ah, sure—no problem, Arnold. Well…I guess this is where we say goodbye for now."

Arnold sighed. "Goodbye, Grandpa…I love you."

"I love you too, shortman."

And then Phil turned rather quickly and walked through the bathroom door and out of sight.

"Man," he thought grimly, "if social services ever finds out about this…what are they going to do, throw me in jail?" But …that last goodbye with Arnold had reminded him that he would be going away for a long time…and as he walked back up to the boarding house, the tears were flowing.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] There is scant definite information about the "secret tunnels." We know that the tunnels proper were accessed from a circular hole in the ceiling, as depicted in the shot where Ernie hands Oscar the last box of dynamite. This is the hole are heroes are about to climb through.<p>

We assume the following: the "secret" tunnels were constructed in a quasi-conspiratorial manner during the last period of British rule, in order to facilitate the insurgents' movements during an expected uprising (or later, during a British invasion). The tunnels were directly connected to a number of resistance houses, including the building which is now called the Sunset Arms; there were also a number of connections to the sewer system.

After the revolution succeeded and the British threat had been removed, the residents turned their energy to private pursuits. Eventually the "safe houses" appropriated their connections to the tunnels and converted them into private spaces, of which the Sunset Arms' opulent downstairs bathroom was typical. But among the residents there were some (Arnold's ancestors) who, out of respect for the old spirit of resistance, included in their designs some means by which the tunnels could still be accessed.

Since then (probably about 100 years ago), the tunnels declined in importance even further, so that by the time of the movie probably only a few people know of their existence, nevermind where they go or why they were built.

[2] The sewer system of Hillwood (as depicted in "Sewer King") probably combines the sewage with storm-drain runoff. (See endotwikipediadotorg / wiki / Combined_sewer .)

[3] I have constructed Arnold's attitude towards the Sewer King on the basis of their experiences in the episode "Sewer King." There is also a book, "Return of the Sewer King," which I haven't read. From what I've seen (heyarnolddotwikiadotcom / wiki / Return_of_the_Sewer_King ) it's not clear that this attitude remained the same. I have unfortunately ignored this book completely.

[4] phonetic


	18. The sewer knave

Arnold stood still for a moment, watching his grandpa depart. Himself saddened at having so affected the old man, he knew that the way to hope lay below, through the tunnels. So he gathered up his will, switched on his headlamp, and climbed down the rope ladder. The fishing line was irksome during the descent, but once he cleared the base of the ladder, it was OK.

At the first intersection Arnold turned left, the opposite direction from Grandpa's escape route. To keep his sense of direction, he reminded himself that the line from the entry hole to the destroyed building crossed Vine Street at a right angle, so that he was now walking 'up' Vine—that is, he was walking in the same direction he had taken after parting with Helga this afternoon.

Looking down the tunnel he noticed it was quite long—indeed with his faint headlamp he wasn't sure he could see the end. What was more, ahead of him several more passages opened on both sides. As he walked by them, turning his head back and forth, he noticed that in the first couple of cases they looked quite similar to where he came in: a short passage, terminating quickly, with a large round hole in the ceiling. Unlike his hole, these were dark, closed; as silent as the grave.

To satisfy his curiosity Arnold waded underneath one of thes holes and inspected it closely. He found it sealed up tight by1 a thick-looking rusted metal disk. Although of course Arnold had no intention of breaking rule #1, he wondered whether he could work out from the geography whether he was underneath a vacant lot. If so, how could he climb through an open ceiling-hole?

He realized that the one piece of equipment he was missing was a grappling-hook and rope. Could he go back and get one? He was sure he could find stuff to make one in the fishing room…but he didn't want to go back just now. Besides the time he would have lost, he thought it possible that the sight of him back in the boarding house, defeated, looking for more stuff, might convince his Grandpa not to let him go after all. Neither could he use the fishing rod near the bathroom, since the line was too thin to climb even with gloves, and it wouldn't support his weight in any case. Come to think of it, Arnold doubted whether, weighed down as he was with all this gear, he could pull himself up a rope at all. So Arnold had to put away the idea of climbing up one of these holes, unless a ladder was already down. But in that case he would be breaking the rule.

He returned to the main tunnel and proceeded. After another boring side passage, he came to another intersection. Looking both ways, he saw long tunnels, without end in sight in either direction. Man, thought Arnold, this place was huge!

But looking forward, across the "street," almost at the limit of his light's reach, he saw something else, and gave a sigh of relief. It was another sliding door like Grandpa had shown him. He waded towards it quickly, but without unnecessary splashing. The door being stuck, Arnold brought his crowbar into action. He wedged the thin end into the door's exposed edge and pulled. With great effort he heaved the door open a crack. Then using the curved end of the crowbar he pulled (in several strokes) the door open about four inches. But here Arnold reached an impasse: the door was open as wide as the curved part of his crowbar, so that sticking it between the panel's edge and the doorway did nothing.

After thinking for a second he stuck the straight end of the crowbar through the open section and pushed it against the now-exposed brick wall which, as in Grandpa's exit, was receding from the doorway at an angle. Then with the tip of the crowbar resting on the bricks, he pushed the crowbar's body against the door edge, budging it slightly. Arnold advanced the crowbar and repeated the movement.

Thus Arnold opened the door about nine inches total. But he found that as the brick wall receded from the door, the door's position on the crowbar moved away from the tip and towards Arnold's hands: he was losing his leverage. He pushed the door another couple of inches...but now it got too hard for him. As Arnold was pushing forward on the crowbar with all his strength the tip slipped from the wall: the crowbar gave, and Arnold pitched forward all the way. His landed on his hands, stopping the fall with his face mere inches above the surface of sewage. The crowbar meanwhile spun round, fell across his backpack, and landed in the drink with a clang. Although Arnold's face was dry, his work gloves were flooded, and his hands soaked.[1]

Then Arnold pushed himself back up, emptied his gloves, and studied the door again. Its metal handle stuck out from the plate, making a rectangle with rounded corners. Arnold realized that he could pry the door by resting the crowbar-tip against the lip of the panel in which the door was set, just beneath the handle and a bit forward, and pushing up on the crowbar so that the rod shoved the handle away from him. Moreover, this motion had no natural limits, since the panel was the same all down its length.

So he picked up the crowbar and in a few quick iterations opened the door another six inches. As he peered through the opening, now wide enough, he was bitterly disappointed to see that the space he'd revealed was filled with the brick rubble, earth, bits of concrete, etc. etc. The roof must have collapsed. It was impassable!

Looking for some upshot to all of this, Arnold found one which horrified him. The fact was, he was still on the first left turn from his bathroom. That is to say, he was _still _underneath Vine Street; if he'd emerged from that manhole, the cop would have had line of sight! In fact, working out his orientation, he realized the cop car on Vine Street would have been pointing right at him; he need only look up from his newspaper! Arnold cursed his stupidity, returned to the intersection he'd just passed, turned left, then suddenly stopped to think.

This way, he knew, led away from the highway overpass. But what about under the overpass? Perhaps when the support columns of the overpass had been put down, they had disturbed the tunnels, creating some new way out? But no, he realized, that street too was watched by the cops. Even if there was a path there, it was closed to him. He _had_ to get somewhere where those two cops won't see me!

So Arnold continued on his chosen way, perpendicular to Vine Street. There were only a couple of alcove-holes, and none in pairs, until he came to the next "street." Arnold knew he was looking down the street parallel to Vine, and still thought it too close to his house—perhaps the cops could hear him coming out of the manhole. So Arnold passed this intersection by and kept going forward. After another "block" he reached the next intersection and turned right. He went forward another block, then turned right. He reminded himself of his location: two streets over from Vine Street, moving "down" the street, on the same block as the boarding house in the other direction. The straight line home crossed no other streets save the one parallel. And then, as he walked, Arnold saw another grating on his left—just one, and no ceiling-holes.

The second time, Arnold knew how to pry the door open. He was quite quick, although the physical effort involved was considerable. The effort was serious because this time the space behind was empty: he had to pry the door open wide enough to climb inside. Once there, he found a convex brick door, very like what his grandpa had shown him. Arnold rotated the handle and saw the latch undo itself…but try as he might, he could not budge the door. It was as if the manhole was full of packed earth! Though annoyed, Arnold closed the latch carefully and respectfully, and went back into the tunnel. Well-served by his sense of direction (and Grandpa's fishing line) he turned left and proceeded down the tunnel.

* * *

><p>One thing Arnold had going for him, he realized as he kept walking, was that as he went through the tunnels and pried open the gratings, he was leaving markers which labeled where he'd been already. In truth, this realization owed much to the fact that the fishing line was getting a bit annoying to pull behind him. By now Arnold had made a left (at the bathroom) and two right turns. The fishing line was stretched across at least three corners, and the friction was making it harder to pull. Further, it was clear that with the distance he had already covered, the line would run out soon.<p>

Indeed, as Arnold crossed the next street (which he was careful to note as the street perpendicular to Vine, which ended his home block on the side from which he had approached the last two afternoons) he felt a sharp tug at his jacket. The line was out! but as he moved to take the hook out, he found it a bit harder than expected. The fish-hook's barb was well stuck in his jacket pocket. Although Arnold was a bit tired, and getting frustrated both from the lack of success so far and the late hour, he knew enough about germs not to risk poking himself with the fishhook in this filthy sewer—I mean, tunnel.

"Man," he thought while struggling with it, "I should've asked for a knife."

But finally, after much effort, he managed to pull the hook free of his coat pocket. He released it, and heard it hit the water. Although he'd turned himself around a bit in fussing with it, he recovered his sense of direction from released line, which with his light he could see beneath the water. He then decided to push onward one more block, then turn left.

On the way to the next intersection, he found one more of those sliding doors. On opening it he found that, like the first, it was blocked by a pile of rubble. Just beyond this door, Arnold saw a dead rat floating in the water; he walked past it and tried not to look too closely.

Arnold entered the next intersection and stood there for a moment; he had an idea. It was getting late, and Arnold needed to get out quickly. Perhaps if he turned off his head-lamp, and looked carefully for a glimmer of light, he would find an exit. Indeed, how else could he now hope to arrive on time? So Arnold reached up and switched the lamp off.

In the perfect darkness which enveloped him, Arnold knew not to move his feet, lest he lose his orientation, but of course he freely turned his head from side to side.

He knew he had to give his eyes time to adjust to the dark. But how long? A minute, perhaps? Arnold didn't know, but however long it was, he was slowly convincing himself that there was no hint of light anywhere to be found.

Suddenly some swimming animal brushed against his leg under the water. Our hero had a terrible jolt, leaped clear out of the water, and staggered over to one of the corners of his intersection; he leaned against it and trembled. It was all his shaking hands could do to find the switch on his headlamp and turn it back on. As he regained control, he turned his head slowly, so that the light swept over the water's surface. Soon he saw a pair of yellow eyes on the edge of beam…which sat there for a moment, then disappeared instantly with a loud splash. The ripple pattern they left was disturbingly large. But, thought Arnold, if it moved so quickly it probably wasn't an alligator. Muskrat, maybe?

But then, with a deep feeling of guilt and disgust, Arnold realized that during the scare he had lost track of his orientation. Now, although he had a perfectly clear idea of _where_ he was [from the point of view of someone standing in his front door, two blocks forward and one and a half blocks to the right] he was completely lost! How could he find the way now? But in the back of his mind, Arnold thought bitterly that it really didn't matter which way he went from here, in that now nothing he could do would get him to PS118 in time.

He thought of the compass…but it was too hard to get out, and anyway, he had never looked at it before down there, so he had nothing to compare the direction to other than the map. But then Arnold had another idea (something very similar happened in _The Two Towers_): he took the large flashlight which thus far had been hanging uselessly at his side, and turned it on. The bright beam illuminated the tunnels so fully that the muskrat wouldn't dare approach him…but of course _that_ wasn't the point. Arnold pointed the beam down each of the four directions in turn, using its great bright beam to see much further than with his headlamp. Looking down the tunnels, he could see that one of them ended after a block and a half, the others further away. Moreover, as he scanned the tunnel walls he could see that, though all four of them had sliding panels, only one of them panels was slid open: about eight inches. This was where Arnold had been. He instantly oriented himself, turned off the bright beam, and pressed on in the direction he had intended to go.

When Arnold came to the next sliding door he found that it appeared to have been welded shut. This mystery Arnold would have no time to unravel; he hastened on. As he crossed the next side street, he noticed that the water was getting rather deeper: Before it had come halfway up his shins; now it was nearly at the level of his knees. It slowed him down a bit, but he kept going.

* * *

><p>Present Arnold saw at the base of the tunnel wall, on his left, a low opening where the wall stopped a few inches above the water. If it was dry, he would have been able to crawl through it. As it was he could still try, at the cost of immersing himself. Arnold hesitated. He knew it was late, but he also knew that there was a good chance the passage wouldn't go anywhere. Was it worth it to soak his whole body with untreated sewage just to try that one opening? Arnold came pretty close to doing it, perhaps surprisingly close, but changed his mind. His equipment, never mind getting wet, would have made it very difficult to get under that wall in a timely fashion; it might even be dangerous to try. "Also," he thought mischievously in the gloom, "I might want to kiss Helga with these lips." He moved on down the tunnel.<p>

Arnold crossed the next street, ('four blocks forward, one and a half blocks to the right') and paused for a moment. With a rather embarrassing amount of trouble he removed his watch from the secondary pouch of his backpack and checked the time. He was horrified: 9:52! Now it was just a question of how late he'd be. Arnold thought about whether to go back to the original grating near his house, and risk an encounter with the Sewer King.

"But even then," he thought, "it could take me half an hour to get out if I _don't_ run into the guy. And if I do...well, I can't outrun him with all this stuff, which means…" Which means it was better to keep going.

* * *

><p>Arnold pressed forward and came on his right to the next sliding door, opposite one of those alcoves. In this place, the water was at knee level, and dangerously close to the lips of Arnold's boots. He took his crowbar and swiftly, with a feeling of desperation, began to pry open the door. He completed the first phase of opening it in record time, and the second phase was going quite well. Arnold had opened the grating enough to be encouraged by the clear space behind it but then, when it was open about fourteen inches, the door got stuck.<p>

Arnold gradually increased the force of the crowbar until he was straining with all his might. Then, several things happened at once. The door gave way and lurched forward; a great avalanche of dust, gravel, and other rubble came down on the other side of it, expelling a cloud of white dust which enveloped Arnold completely; the boy pitched forward a bit and put his left foot down at such an angle that the sewage flowed into his boot and put his lower left leg completely underwater.

Choking in the dust cloud, coughing badly and rubbing his eyes, Arnold hobbled painfully into the alcove across the way and slumped against the wall. Already at the end of his rope, with this latest setback Arnold's morale suffered a complete collapse. He cursed himself for not checking the time earlier; for all the mistakes he had made. Helga, he was sure, would never have screwed up this badly. Oh, why did he suck so much at this stuff?

But the memory of Helga was a like a sunbeam in the darkness. He took her picture from his pocket and stared at it with sadness, affection, and shame.

"Oh Helga," he thought to himself [or, perhaps, forgetting himself in his misery, he began to speak aloud] "you, my love, are so much better at this than me. Even that night, in Scheck's tower, I would have been useless without you. _You_ caught me when I was down; _you _led me to seek the tape; _you_ followed me as I retrieved it; _you _saved me from walking straight into a trap, just as I was about to lose everything again; _you _led me to your beautiful self, up there on the balcony…"

Deep in anguish as he was, the memory of that night filled him with rapture. He continued poetically, and although the exact words he used are unrecoverable, they went something like this: [2]

"Oh Helga! Even in waking, my heart was asleep. You passed through the fire …you kissed me awake…Oh Helga, Helga, blessed heroine! You waker of life…you conquering light…Oh if you knew, how I have loved you. I sheltered your secret, before I knew it…Oh, Helga! My heart greeted you with the most blissful dread, as your soul you bared to me! All that you hid in your heart, all you are, bright as the day, dawned on my sight, as in winter's frosty desert, my eyes beheld you, my love! Oh Helga!

"…but now pales the splendor, the light dies out; darkening shadow gathers around me: deep in my heart alone yet glimmers a dim, dying glow…all is still…"

But even as he said that, Arnold began to hear a soft, eerie crescendo of wheezy breathing. After spending a moment to figure out where it was coming from, he snapped his head up and pointed at the ceiling-hole above him, where his lamp illuminated Brainy upside down; his head and torso sticking down from the open hole, his arms going back inside, his hands no doubt holding the floor above him.

To say that Arnold nearly had a heart attack would not, I think, be quite correct. He was a perfectly healthy nine-year-old who ate his vegetables, exercised regularly, and refrained from overindulging in cholesterol and other artery-clogging substances. But he was terribly shocked...and he also felt a strange and frighteningly powerful urge to punch Brainy in the face. This urge he manfully resisted, aided by the fact that the face in question was too high to reach with his hands (though not with the crowbar).

"Brainy," asked a bewildered Arnold, "what are you doing here?"

"Uhhhh…something," replied Brainy.

"I don't mean to be rude," said Arnold (who knew that if he _had _meant to be rude he would not have lacked justification), "but...do you think you could be a little more specific? I mean, I thought I was alone down here. How did you get here?"

"Well…uh…actually Arnold…this is where I live."

And Arnold realized with a start that he actually _didn't know_ where Brainy lived; he could be right underneath the place.

"In fact," continued Brainy, "I'm basically _in _my house right now…at least my legs. I…uh… I pretty much have direct access to these tunnels from my room. I've known about them for years…uh…know them like the back of He—the back of my hand.

"So, Arnold," he finished with unexpected, not to say OOC articulateness, "I could answer your question with another question: what are _you _doing here?"

And now Arnold was embarrassed, for he knew that he had little right to be where he was...and perhaps the racket he'd just made with the crowbar had disturbed the kid. His annoyance gone, Arnold sighed with relief: here, at last, was someone who would help him.

"Brainy," he said truthfully, "I had to go somewhere important tonight, and, well, my house is being watched on all sides by the cops, so I had to escape underground. I didn't know about these tunnels until today…but it turns out my house has access, so I thought I'd try to find a way out somewhere where the cops won't see me…but I walked and walked, and I couldn't find anything…" he finished sadly, as if expecting to elicit an offer of some sort.

"Oh…uh…I didn't know about the cops, Arnold…I'm sorry man…" Brainy trailed off.

Arnold decided to be a little more direct.

"Brainy," he said, "if you know these tunnels so well, could you point me to an exit? Actually, I'm already late for what I'm supposed to be doing. _Please_?"

"Oh yeah! Sorry…hey Arnold, I live right up in this building. Just let me lower a ladder and I'll take you up…you can walk right out my front door!"

No sooner had he said the words than Brainy disappeared. A second later, a wooden ladder shot down through the hole and hit the bottom of the tunnel with a loud _plunk_. In the next instant Brainy's torso reappeared, upside down as before.

"Brainy," said Arnold, "that's wonderful, thank you! But, actually...Brainy, although I really need to get out of these tunnels soon, I'll want to get back in again in a few hours, when the job is done, so I can go back home without being seen. I don't think I could come back and just walk into your house that late…so, although I really, _really_ appreciate the offer…um, do you know of any other exits I could use?"

"Well Arnold, the fact is, all the working exits I know of are underwater right now…but wait a second…actually, there _is _one exit that should be very nice for you. I just found it a couple days ago. Wait here, I'll take you."

Arnold didn't wait long. Two seconds after Brainy's head went up, Arnold saw his hands come back through holding a moderately sized, squarish yellow object. Brainy's hands separated, pulling a cord, and the yellow thing self-inflated into a raft which fell smartly onto the water's surface. A moment later a flashlight, followed by an oar, fell through the hole onto the floor of the raft, which to Arnold's relief was just the right size for two nine-year-olds to sit in without encroach on each other's personal space. Then Brainy climbed down the ladder, wearing his usual street clothes, and got into the raft.

"Get in, Arnold."

So our football-headed hero climbed the ladder a few rungs and kicked his left leg back, to let the accumulated sewage pour out of his boot, which Brainy watched pityingly. Then Arnold carefully placed himself in the raft with all his gear. Brainy pushed off with the oar and turned left, the direction Arnold had been going before.

Arnold quickly noticed that Brainy was pushing with his oar rather than rowing; the water was shallow enough.

"Do you mind if I push too, with my crowbar? Just tell me when we have to turn."

"Sure…uh…thanks…"

With both of them pushing the raft moved at a very respectable speed, at least double what Arnold had been doing on foot. They went past another "side street," and turned left at the next one.

"Uh…Arnold," said Brainy wheezily, "…I guess I haven't seen you since before the bus crash…I just want to say, I think what you guys did was really cool…I guess I'm not entitled to a personal telling, but still…I mean, is it true you stole that tape from Scheck's building all by yourselves?"

Arnold was a bit embarrassed by the praise, but part of him knew he would have to get used to it. At least this time he knew it was sincere.

"Well," Arnold began, "yeah, that's basically true. Gerald and I ran into the building and snuck into Scheck's private office. When we found where the document was supposed to be—I mean the document Scheck burned on the tape, the one making the neighborhood a historic landmark—the place was empty. Then Scheck burned it in front of us, and we ran. Actually it was Helga—she was in the building without us knowing—who called me after running away, and convinced me to go back and get that tape. If it wasn't for her, the whole plan would have failed."

Sadly, it seems necessary to state that the above was news.

"Wow," said Brainy, "Helga did all that? That's…interesting."

"Oh yeah," replied Arnold, "she did it all right…it was because…uh…um…_uh…_"

Arnold's heart sank into his boots. 'Shit,' he probably didn't think. The _one _thing he and Helga had left out of their discussions was a motive that their class would find convincing! Arnold had to think fast. She wanted to get back at her Dad for something? She was bored? _Why? Why did she do it?_

"Don't worry, Arnold," said Brainy affably and without appearing to notice Arnold's distress, "you don't have to tell me about that."

Though relieved to be so easily let off the hook, Arnold found the unexpected generosity a little worrisome.

"Uh, Brainy," he asked with concern, "when you found me…was I speaking out loud?"

"Yes."

"Brainy, _how much did you hear?_"

"Arnold," said Brainy solemnly, "it's my rule never to repeat the things I hear to anyone, _ever..._**ever**! Not even the people who said them."

This Arnold supposed, was good enough…but before he could ponder how Brainy might have got enough experience to formulate a 'rule,' Brainy spoke.

"If you don't mind, Arnold, uh… where are you going tonight that's so important?"

He struggled with where to begin.

"Actually…you know that bus that we crashed in? We're going to find it, wherever it is, and photograph it, to prove it was in terrible condition. You see, if we can't prove that, they might try to get the driver in trouble for driving recklessly…I mean, they might still try, but at least we'll have something against them."

"Oh...that's nice of you, Arnold."

And now Arnold felt a tender sympathy for that weird little guy, whom he never really knew. Searching through his memories, he decided he needed to get something off his chest.

"Brainy," he said earnestly, "I want to apologize for that time we threw you out of a moving train. It was really wrong, and messed up, and…I'm just really sorry."

But Brainy said nothing. He wheezed wordlessly, and Arnold began to fear that he had made a mistake. Had he, in reminding his helper of this terrible deed, awakened in him a slumbering, though just desire for revenge? Arnold gripped his crowbar tightly, and mentally prepared himself to ward off a sudden blow from Brainy's oar. And he thought about whether, in the ensuing struggle, he should let himself be thrown overboard into the sewage, to make things 'even' and thus convince Brainy to complete the journey…

"Oh _that_," said Brainy with the satisfied air of someone who in rummaging through a haystack had just found a needle, "don't worry about it, Arnold. I forgive you…I was fine. In fact, I almost didn't remember…"

Then there was a silence, which Arnold felt to be awkward. But as he was figuring out what to say next, the raft pulled up to an open sliding door on their right, and Brainy announced that this was it. Arnold realized that he had forgotten to count the blocks they travelled after turning left…but it was OK. He knew the number of blocks forward of the boarding house (six exactly), and he knew that he had gone back more than two blocks to the right. Therefore, all he had to do was turn left coming out of this door, then right, walk six blocks, then left on Vine, and look for home on his right. He was good!

Arnold climbed into the open door, and was surprised to find Brainy following him.

"Uh…Arnold…" he said by way of explanation, "…I know you can push up the lid here, but actually, I'm not sure if you can pull it open with your fingers from the outside. Just to be safe, you should go up and try to get it open, then if you don't succeed, knock on the lid and I'll let you back in, so we can prop it somehow."

"Good idea, Brainy."

Arnold took off his backpack, flashlight, crowbar, e-tool, and climbed the stairs to the where the manhole wall was. He found that this door had no latch and was free to rotate. Why had no one noticed it? With Brainy behind him, he gained the wall-ladder of the manhole, pushed the cover to the side, and emerged into the night. Replacing the cover, he tried to pull it up again…but his fingers couldn't get any purchase, just as Brainy thought.

He knocked, and Brainy opened it and let him back down. Then Arnold took his crowbar and wedged it in such a way that the crooked end rested in the corner of one of the ladder rungs, so that the other end poked up ever so slightly above the lip of the manhole, and the cover in resting on it was raised on one side by about a third of an inch.

Arnold thought that would do it.

"Try again, Arnold. I'll be here still if it doesn't work."

Arnold climbed the ladder carefully, without disturbing the crowbar, and out of the hole. Replacing the cover, he found that now he could get his little fingers into the gap, and lift it up. Moreover, the manhole was tilted so slightly that Arnold thought it safe to leave it there for a few hours…maybe even during the day. He lifted the cover once more, climbed down, and found that Brainy, having seen Arnold succeed, had left the manhole and was just about to step into his raft.

But Arnold caught him. "Brainy, man, thank you so much! Why, if you hadn't shown up when you did, I don't know what I would have done. It's not just that you get me out-this exit is pretty close to where I need to be. Just…thanks, man!" He moved to press Brainy's hand, but interrupted the motion for a bit to take off his sewage-covered gloves, get out and apply the hand sanitizer, and thoroughly clean his hands. But after all that the handshake was duly given, and they said their goodbyes.

Brainy turned the boat around and pushed slowly away from the port. As Arnold stopped to remove his boots and his raincoat, he heard Brainy humming a slow tune which he didn't recognize.[3]

After taking off everything but his "spy clothes," Arnold put the backpack back on (after disentangling the e-tool and bulky flashlight, removing the potpourri and a couple of other useless items, and putting his headlamp inside) and ascended the manhole, carefully replacing the cover on the crowbar wedge.

As he looked around the area, Arnold felt he had been here before…he wracked his memory…actually, it was here that he and Gerald, newly decked out in their fancy suits and utility belts, had blindly crashed into Helga who had just gotten off the bus. The strange thing was, Brainy said he'd found this exit a couple days ago, which would have been about the same time. But of course this coincidence was perfectly meaningless, and Arnold soon forgot about it.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] You will recall that early in the morning, about 14 hours ago, Arnold cut one of his fingers on the grating of an airduct. This superficial cut has healed sufficiently that there is no real danger of infection from the sewage (or at least I think so, though I have no medical training). Perhaps he applied some hand sanitizer to kill the germs before proceeding.<p>

[2] Much of the following consists of opera quotations from _Siegfried _and _The Valkyrie_. The _Siegfried _lines were all sung by Brunnhilde (not Siegfried) to emphasize the Arnold-Brunnhilde analogy which I find interesting. (cf. tecuciztecatlocelotl dotdeviantartdotcom / art / Hey - Arnold - Awakening - Brunhilde - 167043036 ). The libretti (homedotearthlinkdotnet / ~ markdlew / shw / Ringdothtm) were linked to in a previous chapter.

[3] Insert whatever song you want. Personally I have in mind "O Isis and Osiris" from _The Magic Flute_. (see e.g. youtubedotcom / watch ? v = JATWAvFtuJA, or RKEcuX6u-z4 for a version sung in English.)


	19. In the junkyard, the mighty junkyard

As Arnold walked briskly towards PS 118, he checked his watch again: 10:08! He was late, but maybe his friends hadn't left yet. From the manhole it wasn''t far, and within a few more minutes Arnold approached the meeting-place.

It was unusually dark tonight, and quiet. On the highway above there was, of course, no traffic; and the street lights which lined it were also out as well, their power source having been severed in the blast. Parked across from PS 118, Arnold noticed a moderately old blue sedan with three people sitting in it. He was soon able to distinguish Helga's pigtails in the back seat, and what might have been Gerald's tower in front. Bridget was sitting in the driver's seat, wearing a beanie.

Such was Arnold's relief that he smiled broadly, and imprudently waved at them. He walked up to Bridget's now-open window and asked, without the slightest hint of embarrassment, "Bridget, do you have a towel in the car? My left leg is a bit damp."

Indeed, his shoe had been squishing audibly for the first half of his walk.

"Sure," said Bridget, "I'll pop the trunk. There should be a towel on the left."

As the car light turned on, Bridget's eyes widened.

"Criminy, Arnold!" said Helga impulsively, "_what happened?_"

"Well," he stuttered, "I got a bit sidetracked on my way here, and I didn't start early enough"-

"No not _that_, football-head! I mean your face! You look like someone beat you to death with a sack of flour!"

Bridget pointed helpfully at her side mirror, in which Arnold soon saw that his face, his hat, and his hair was coated with a fine white powder, so that he looked something like a ghost or other fiendish spirit; his hair, moreover, had retained its previous form, its unruly, omnidirectional tufts producing an impression of possible insanity.

"Wow," he said.

"Well, Arnold," replied Bridget, "I guess you should go to the trunk and get that towel. I've got a water bottle up here, and there should be a handkerchief in the glove compartment. We'll get you cleaned up."

(By 'we' Bridget meant Helga, who would be sitting with him in the back.)

Arnold went to the trunk and found the towel, seeing also a large metal case on the right side, which might contain the cameras. Before he got in, he grasped Gerald's outstretched hand through the window, and made the thumb gesture. He sat down across from Helga and closed the door. Helga, incidentally, was well dressed for the part: back sweater, black pants, black beanie, black strips under her eyes, tool belt…Arnold thought she looked _very _good that night, and regretted that the same could not be said of him.

Before starting the car, Bridget informed the party that they were going to the auto section of the Hillwood city dump. Helga remembered the place from her trip to recover Arnold's hat, and regarded its security arrangements with contempt. As the car pulled away from the curb, she silently poured some water onto a cloth, and gently began to clean Arnold's face.

Gerald, who noticed the tender care which Helga was paying to her beloved, and Arnold's contentedly relaxed receipt thereof, had difficulty believing what he was seeing. Had Arnold really come out that quickly? He sat quietly and tried to process it all.

"Close your eyes, hair-boy," said Helga before wiping the dust from Arnold's eyelids. Finally, having brought her black face paint, she was about to anoint Arnold's cheekbones, when Bridget stopped her.

"Not yet, Helga. For now, I want him to look normal."

"So Arnold," said Bridget after a brief pause, "I've had good news from Monkeyman. He says FTI is interested; they'll probably want to meet you tomorrow. He thinks tomorrow afternoon, since he'll meet them in the morning himself, to work out the details. I already told the other kids this, but you should be ready to instantly meet Monkeyman and go with him to FTI. Arnold, since your phone is unusable, I suggest you find some way to spend tomorrow morning either at Gerald's place, or else with someone who has a cellphone,"—Helga, she thought naturally—"or else, just wait on your roof for a pigeon."

"That soon, huh?" said Arnold. "That's good; I'm not sure how much more of this my grandpa can take." Helga gulped quietly; neither was she.

But Bridget had nothing more to say just then, and the silence became awkward. Arnold didn't really want to talk about his journey underground. Helga and Gerald wouldn't have questioned him anyway wth Bridget there, and they also sensed his reluctance. But Arnold wanted to talk about the police raid, etc. even less than his journey through the tunnels, and Helga also preferred not to reveal what she had learned, or done, at dinner. And Arnold resented his own lateness and knew not but that Bridget did too.

Basically, the silence could fairly be called glum...finally Bridget decided that enough was enough. Being, perhaps literally the 'adult in the room,' she took the responsibility of making a short speech.

"Arnold," she said, "I'm glad you made it. The truth is, I was half-expecting you not to show up, and with no explanation. After we parted, I learned that the police've started watching your house from both sides. If you valued our secrecy enough not to let them see you escape, you might also refuse to compromise us by using a tapped phone. But Arnold, that would have been OK. I could never blame you for not leaving the house; I knew it would be because you didn't want to risk us getting caught. Although it would have been sad to miss you, I think we could have managed the mission anyway."

(Bridget didn't mention the obvious, that Arnold's absence would have helped conceal his relationship with Helga, in the event it became necsesary to discuss tonight's action publicly.)

"But Arnold-you're here! If I were any judge of people (and I am), I'd bet anything you managed to come here without being seen—reallly, excellent job. By the way, if the cops _had _seen you I would expect to know of it by tomorrow morning. But anyway, everything about you tells me that you eluded them. Arnold, I don't know how you did it, and it's probably better for you _not _to tell me, but regardless…I'm impressed."

So finished the speech, which was followed by a distinctly non-glum silence. Natrually, Gerald and Helga still preferred to wait until they were alone with Arnold before questioning him. The latter was especially unwilling to reveal Brainy's role in his escape, and since concealing it would have added to the sin of lying that of taking credit for others' work, Arnold simply sat back and watched the city go by.

But not much of it went by: they were nearly there. Bridget turned into a one-way street, rather dark and empty. On their left was a row of old-looking garage doors without windows, with peeling orange paint—perhaps an old self-storage area. On the right a chain-link fence towered over the sidewalk, crowned with lines of barbed wire on outward-jutting supports. Bridget pulled up to the curb and stopped the car.

"_Barbed wire_?" exclaimed Helga involuntarily, "I don't remember that!"

"This is the _auto _section," replied Bridget quickly enough to change the subject. "Car parts are more valuable than the world-average of garbage. Now, my associates tell me there's a hole in the fence, which should be about fifty feet to the rear of our current position. They say it's big enough for us to sneak through, but I'm a little concerned that, uh… _difficulties _may arise as a result of Arnold's unusual head shape. Before we try to get in, I want Arnold and me to inspect the hole. If it's not big enough, I brought tools to enlarge it."

'Me too,' thought Helga silently. She had bolt cutters in her tool belt, and yielded to no one in thinking of Arnold's 'unusual head shape.' Moreover, it was her habit to be capable of doing everything herself.

So Bridget and Arnold got out of the car and walked to the rear. As they left, Bridget recalled the case of the man who had to carry a wolf, a goat, and a cabbage across a river.

* * *

><p>In the car, meanwhile, all was quiet.<p>

"Helga," began Gerald, "about you and Arnold…"

"What do you mean, Geraldo?"

"I mean, uh…did Arnold confess his love?"

"His WHAT!?"

"Oh, I mean his love of gardening!…mm mm mm, that Arnold _really_ loves to grow things!"

"Just kidding, Gerald...he totally did. But," she added menacingly, "it's still our deepest, darkest secret, which you can never, ever_, ever_ tell anyone. Ever!"

"OK; he swore me to secrecy too…don't worry, I won't tell."

"Good," replied Helga, "because if you do…" She made a significant gesture, as if she was hand-screwing together two vertical sections of pipe.

Gerald gulped, slid down a bit in his chair, smiled, and thought, probably, that Arnold was a bold kid.

* * *

><p>As they neared the fence hole Bridget was exerting her ample willpower, to stop herself from asking Arnold about his journey to her car. It was really quite demanding, and she was relieved when they arrived at the hole. This 'hole' was not really that, but rather a place where two ill-connected sheets of chain link met, and one was bent back at the lower corner. After a brief exchange of views, she and Arnold decided that some more work was needed; during this Bridget surreptitiously measured the diameter of the fence-wire with a pair of calipers, concealed in her sleeve. This done, Bridget turned forward <em>away <em>from the car, and kept walking; Arnold followed.

"It's better," she said by way of explanation, "to act like normal pedestrians in case anyone is watching. And, whenever possible, the leaders if any—although it's generally better for the whole party to do it—should personally reconnoiter an area before beginning any kind of operations. Unfortunately, I was too busy until now to come over and check the place out. Just keep your eyes open and familiarize youself."

As they walked together, Bridget was sorely tried..._h__ow,_ she asked herself,did he get one leg soaked up to the knee, but not the other one? And _why _had his head been coated with white dust, but not his clothing? But she held firm against the temptation: Arnold's security was too important. So they rounded the block, and re-entered the car without further conversation.

"I think," said Bridget after sitting down, "we'll have to modify the hole a bit—but we have tools for that. Arnold, could you do me a favor? Side over to the middle, fold the right back seat down, and pull that case into the back seat. Let's get ready."

"So we're going to cut the fence?" asked Helga.

"No. Actually, I don't believe in cutting fences unless absolutely necessary. We'll bend it instead. For chain-link we make a nice hand-held, tube-benderish tool I'll use to bend it back link by link. It takes a bit longer, but it's much better. No sharp edges, no permanent damage to the fence, and its less suspicious-looking since an animal could've done it."

Arnold having managed to get the case open, they saw three flashlights, three cameras, a couple of the 'fence-benders', four simple gas masks of the type that cover only the mouth and nose, three pairs of swimming goggles, what looked like a pesticide sprayer, some other things that the kids didn't recognize, a long metal rod with some annular lines and, the _piece de resistance,_ a pair of night-vision goggles.

"So," said Bridget, "my idea for this is the following. Each of you will take a camera, a flashlight, a gas mask, and goggles. I'll take the night-vision goggles, the stick, and the pesticide sprayer, the tape degausser, and the smoke bombs, and the fence-bender of course. I'll get out of the car and go open the fence. Thirty seconds after I _reach_ the fence, unless you see me make this gesture"—she drew her hand across her neck-"you'll get out of the car, _walk_, not run to the fence, and nonchalantly crawl through the hole. At this point, we'll be inside. You'll find some cover and wait, without turning on your flashlights or making any sound, while I scout ahead with the night-vision goggles. If there's a dog or anything, I'll deal with him. (I have chemicals to induce the most pleasant sleep for a few hours; hence the masks.) Once the coast is clear, I'll come get you and we'll go and photograph the bus. If, although I think it's unlikely, I do not return after _fifteen minutes_, you should assume the mission is lost and escape on your own. Helga, you know the way back on foot?"

"Yeah, more or less."

"Good. Any questions?"

Not even Helga could think of anything just then.

"OK," Bridget continued, "Although I'm not your parent, and I have no right to set rules for you, I hope that you'll submit to the following of your own free will:"

Great, thought Arnold, another set of rules. At least this one won't be as silly as the last…

"First, _no looting._"

Nevermind, thought Arnold. Why does _everyone_ assume that kids these days are hooligans?

"Not only would it compromise the character of our mission, but it would be a serious distraction, and any stuff you take would encumber your movements. We'll follow the hiker's rule: take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints. Actually I'm planning not to leave any footprints either.

"Second, if we're discovered and we have to run, you should consider yourselves under strict discipline, and you should promptly obey any orders which I might have to give, even, or I guess I should say _especially_, orders to leave me and save yourselves."

"Oh come on, Bridget," said Helga, "seriously? Aren't you being a _bit_ melodramatic?"

"Well, Helga, to be perfectly honest, part of me always wanted to say that. But really, if we _do_ get into trouble, 'leave me and save yourselves' is pretty much the plan. I'll distract them while you escape, and then it will be on me to get myself out as I see fit. If you're safely away, I won't have to worry about you: I can break off instantly and disappear without a trace, using my full powers. But if you stuck around, I couldn't leave you behind; it would totally screw up my escape! You must, I mean _must_ leave if we get into trouble. So what's left of rule number two is this: _after_ leaving me, don't try to meet me at the car, but just walk back to your neighborhood instead.

"So…if there are no more questions, I guess we'll get ready."

In the course of distributing and donning their equipment, Helga gave Arnold the under-eye marks she had postponed before. When she was almost done, Bridget got out of the car and walked casually up to the fence-hole, and started working.

"One one thousand two one thousand three one thousand…" counted Helga under her breath. After thirty one thousands the kids got out of the car and started walking. They saw Bridget disappear within it, and followed her about five seconds later. (Arnold's head fit perfectly.) Our young heroes advanced through the short grass in a kind of aisle between two stacks of wrecked, half-flattened cars. Soon a gap opened on their right, leading to a small clearing with single cars, offering good visibility and decent cover. Here they crouched, and waited for Bridget to return.

After about four minutes she came back, and the kids were almost visibly frightened, so otherworldly did she look carrying her pesticide sprayer, with her face obscured by goggles and gas mask. She gestured for them to follow her.

They crept down a winding, sandy path between the more car-corpses, littered with scattered detritus, until they found the bus lying on its side in a clearing—the same side it had tipped onto two days ago. Nearby, but not yet very close, Bridget could see a large electromagnet hanging from a crane. (The kids didn't see it, since it was dark, and they dared not point their lights away from the ground.)

They assembled next to the roof of the bus, and Bridget spoke some more. Most of what she said she sincerely regretted not having gone over earlier, in the car. Partially muffled by the mask, she compensated by expressive gesticulations.

"OK guys, number one rule is, photograph everything exactly as it is, before changing _anything_. If possible, don't change anything. Number two, take multiple pictures, in case one doesn't come out right. Number three, each of you take pictures of the same things, in case one of you has a better angle. I suggest you get in through the overhead vent and get started. I'll keep watch."

And with that, Bridget left them, went around the bus to the 'underside,' and quickly climbed up to the top. Scanning the horizon, she left the kids to their task. After taking several photos of the overhead vent from outside, Gerald moved in, stuck his hand behind it, and in a few seconds managed to work the lever; he and Arnold took off the vent and gently rested it on the ground, leaning against the bus roof. Arnold then helped Gerald climb in, then Helga, she then pulled him in.

As you can imagine, the bus didn't look too good. The row of windows on the ground had been shattered, but between the long skid on the pavement in Vine Street, and the lifting up and putting down of the bus during its journey to the dump, there were almost no free shards left, except around the edges where some jagged pieces had stuck to the frames. Although the damage from the crash was obvious, there were still plenty of indications that the bus had long been, so to speak, a piece of crap. Even without advancing to the driver's seat one could see that bolts were visibly rusted, and cobwebs had been spun behind the poorly fastened covers of air-blowers.

Standing in the rear of the bus, our heroes took pictures in all directions. Besides the above-metioned features they took close-ups of the dilapidated seats and walls, and overall views down the aisle. Bridget, ever mindful, was careful to crouch and move, staying generally above the kids, and generally hiding herself below the sill of the topside windows. Then the kids began to spread out: Gerald in front, Arnold in the middle, and Helga in the rear. Soon, Gerald noticed something unusual.

"Hey Bridget," he said, "check out this VCR!"

Wedged in the bottom of the bus, between the old floor and the underside of a passenger seat there lay face-down a black rectangular box, which in those days could only have been a VCR. As Gerald snapped a few photos of it, Bridget (who had removed her mask a while ago) crept to above Gerald's position and looked down.

"Gerald," she whispered happily, "is it empty?"

He picked up the VCR, turned it face-up, and pushed the lid open with his fingers.

"Nope."

"Great...I was wondering what happened to that tape!

"Come on, guys," she continued defensively. "I'm not perfect, you know. And you know how busy I was right after it was played. The weird part is…that VCR was plugged in. I wonder why no one noticed the cables[1] and removed it.

"Well, let's keep going. We'll take it with us when we leave."

The work resumed. At the front of the bus, our heroes were quite thorough in taking pictures of the arrangement of the pedals, the broken door handle, fixed with tape and broken again later, the place whence the sign had flopped down onto Murray's head, and the lack of any driver seatbelt. The lack of a seatbelt, surely, was inexcusable and must be held wholly responsible for the concussion which Muray sustained aganst the steering wheel, which rendered him unconscious. To be sure, Murray _knew_ that he'd lacked a seatbelt, and so must bear a portion of the responsibility for his incapacitation; it might have been better if instead some ceiling panel, supposed to be tightly bound, had konked him on the head to produce the same effect.

Nevertheless, the truth was damning enough. Arnold hoped, and half-thought, that it would be sufficient to deter, if not defeat, any proceeding which that embodiment of impatial justice, the State, should be tempted to launch.

So, after a few final photos down the bus towards the rear, the job came to an end. The kids, after exchanging looks with Bridget, made their way to the vent-hole and climbed out. Meanwhile Bridget lowered herself into the bus, picked up the VCR, checked again for the tape, and watched the kids exit: Arnold first, then Helga, then Gerald. Bridget climbed out last through the vent hole, and she was rather clumsy at it: the VCR prevented her from enjoying the full use of her hands. But after a brief struggle she pushed herself through the vent-hole competently enough, and landed on her feet.

"Alright guys," she said, "let's put the vent cover back in and get going."

Gerald and Helga lifted the cap and snapped it back into place. But what Arnold saw in Bridget's arms moved him to speak, and although he affected a joking tone, his recent, days-long exposure to adult baseness and hypocrisy may have imparted an undercurrent of honest disgust.

" 'No looting,' huh?"

"Arnold," replied Bridget earnestly, "I know this doesn't look good, but…well, this is _my _VCR. I borrowed it from my parents' house before we went to your street. Actually, I was a bit worried they'd notice it was missing and blame me. (They don't watch much TV.)...Generally speaking," she added by way of explanation, "they support what I do, but losing the VCR would have been a bit too much."

But, sad to say, this complete and highly satisfactory explanation drew nothing but blank stares.

"Well, Arnold…now that we've established that there's no _looting_ involved, would you hold this for me? I need my hands to cover our tracks. Guys, you go first. Single file, please."

So Bridget handed Arnold the VCR and produced the notched metal rod. After quickly working the handle the rod extruded a bunch of thin metal strips which then fanned out to make a kind of rake. As the kids moved back towards the fence-hole, Bridget followed them, pulling the rake behind her and swishing it, so that even the swept swath's edges should not be discernible. In this way they soon came almost up to the fence.

"Lights off and get down!" whispered Bridget urgently. The sound of a car, soon followed by the beams of its turning headlights, justified this command, which was instantly obeyed. Bridget alone allowed her head to stick above the parapet (a car's hood), watching with her goggles. The car drove down the street and past the hole, without giving any sign that it noticed something amiss. When its noise dwindled into the distance, Bridget relaxed and turned back to the kids.

"Alright guys. I'll go to the fence-hole and check it out. If it's clear, I'll hoot like an owl." Helga rolled her eyes. "Then, you'll go one by one, at five-second intervals. Arnold, you'll go last. Whoever goes just before Arnold will wait on the other side of the hole and take the VCR from him before he goes through…Gerald, I guess it should be you since the back seat is a bit messed up, and Helga and Arnold shouldn't be trying to get in at the same time…Ready?"

They nodded, and soon got back without incident. Once in the car, Gerald handed the VCR to Helga, who managed to put in in the trunk, to the side of the metal case, which she, which she then pulled out again. They put their equipment back in the case and pushed it back into the trunk; Bridget started the car.

"Well, guys," she said after they were moving, "I think that went _quite well_. We came, we took the pictures, we left. It looks like no one saw us. Moreover, we recovered that VCR. Tonight I'll go home and figure out if it still works, and if the tape's OK."

"In conclusion, I just want to say that you performed very well tonight, and although you are _way _too young to join our organization…well, it's definitely something to think about when you get older."

Meanwhile, Helga removed Arnold's face paint and taught him how to reciprocate.

"Bridget," said Gerald thoughtfully, "if that tape is good, we might want to have it tomorrow, when we meet FTI."

"That's true," replied Bridget, "but I think you shouldn't take it into the building with you. It _is_ their property, and they might try to get it back for nothing. Unless Monkeyman says otherwise, I'll hold onto it, and if you want me to give it to them Helga can call me."

* * *

><p>As Bridget pulled into PS118, she began to say her goodbyes.<p>

"Well, kids, it looks like this is it for me. I'll probably see you tomorrow, but it should be a quick hand-off of the developed pictures and the tape (if that) so basically…this is the last time we'll see each other for a long time …although if you ever need special spy equipment, or some practical advice…hmm, actually, I guess you _won't_ know where to find me, will you? All I can say is that later, sometime after our headquarters is re-established, Fuzzy Slippers will be informed again. I just want to say, guys, that it's been a great pleasure working with such a talented, smart, brave, and noble-hearted group of kids." She sighed. "Well, I guess there's no point in dragging this out…"

Then Bridget rotated in her seat, shaking in turn Gerald's, Arnold's, and lastly Helga's hands. But as the kids were just about to leave, Bridget's face darkened.

"Guys," she said firmly, "if you don't mind, I'd like to talk with Arnold a bit, _alone_." Gerald and Helga, although they did mind, complied.

"Arnold," Bridget then asked, "when you came here this evening, did you go through the sewers?"

"No," he said, "not through the sewers."

"But your left leg was soaked, and it smelled bad. And you looked like you had been through some trouble…Arnold, I say this because I've had reliable reports of a capricious, territorial, possibly _dangerous_ man who lives down there, calling himself the Sewer King…don't think I doubt your honesty, but if you _were _going through the sewers, I'd have to _insist_, I mean literally, force you to take my night-vision goggles with you when you leave. As it is, I offer them freely. Arnold, you'll find them very useful in _whatever_ dark place you find yourself in, on your way home tonight, or later in life. Take them! I'm dead serious."

"You mean you'd just give them to me? But they must be really expensive!"

"Well, they're not cheap, but still, they're less than the total value of the stuff I gave you for that Scheck business, and which you so generously tried to give back. Arnold, don't even think about the cost! Your safety is more important. I guess you had a flashlight, but of course the goggles are much better—they let you see without giving away your position. Arnold! If you're going anywhere near this 'Sewer King's domain, you _must _take them. Besides, I don't mind the money, after all the effort I've put into helping you and your friends."

And since Bridget privately reckoned among this 'effort' all the equipment lost in the sack of her headquarters, the calculation expressed in her last sentence was really quitey reasonable.

"Bridget," said Arnold while leaning forward looking at her in that endearing, irresistible way of his, "I really appreciate it, but I _swear _I'm not going through the sewers. Actually, a few months ago I did go there. I met this Sewer King…Gerald was with me; it's a long story, but he basically scared the crap out of me, and although I could've used the sewers to get here, I didn't do it."

And although Arnold would have preferred to leave it at that, he decided otherwise.

"Basically, Bridget, under our neighborhood there's an old network of secret tunnels. They aren't part of the sewers at all, and although they have exits that connect with manholes leading to the sewer, the exits are locked and _very _well disguised on the manhole side. I really don't think anyone can get into the tunnels from the sewers unless they know exactly what they're doing…when the bomb blew up, the tunnels were flooded with sewer-water, but the breach is behind a wall of rubble. There's no way anyone could get through. I waded through the tunnels in boots, but I slipped once and the left boot was flooded. That was the same time, actually, that my head got coated with dust. But that was a one-time mistake; it couldn't happen again. Bridget, I'm _really_ sure I can get back just fine, without the goggles. I left a lot of equipment in one of the exits, including a crowbar. But…still, I really appreciate the offer."

Bridget, truth be told, _still_ thought he should take them. But she couldn't force him, and although she could try to persuade him by painting the horrors of the unknown in terrifying colors, she declined: he would refuse anyway, and it would just scare him.

"Arnold," she said finally, "before you go, one last thing. I told you Fuzzy Slippers would lean our new address, but since I don't want you to be dependent on him alone, I'll _personally _send it to you by pigeon, once everything is settled. And another thing…when I look at the tape tonight, I'll send you a note, 'Thumbs up' if the tape is good, down if not. I'm sure the cops won't notice a solitary pigeon landing on your roof at night…Take care, Arnold!"

"You too…goodbye Bridget!"

She leaned out of the driver's seat and gave him a tender hug. After that, Arnold got out of the car and watched it drive away.

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>[1] The movie shows that the VCR was connected to the screen with <em>one <em>black cable which passes directly into the unit without splitting. This is probably an artistically licensed abbreviation for the several distinct connections which are normally necessary; hence the use of the plural.


End file.
